LIBRARY 

University  of   California 

IRVINE 


THE    HOUSE   OF  COBWEBS 


WORKS  BY  GEORGE  GISSING 


THE  PRIVATE  PAPERS  OF  HENRY  RYECROFT. 

The  Times  says : — '  Mr.  Gissing  has  never  written  anything  more 
remarkable.  ...  In  many  ways  it  is  his  best  work  .  .  .  strikes  us  as 
a  tour  deforce.' 

The  Daily  Chronicle  says : — '  The  sustained  excellence  of  the  writing 
in  this  volume  will  surprise  even  his  admirers.  The  pages  that 
describe  natural  beauties  of  scene  or  of  season  are  the  finest  that  have 
been  written  lately.  .  .  .  The  volume  is  a  great  treat.  It  is  the  revela- 
tion of  a  deeply  interesting  personality,  and  it  is  expressed  in  the 
prose  of  admirable  strength  and  beauty.' 

VERANILDA. 

Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  in  The  Sphere :— '  Gissing's  maturest,  latest, 
and  most  deliberately  conceived  book  .  .  .  the  book  that  lay  nearest 
his  heart  during  the  last  years  of  his  life.' 

Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney  in  The  Daily  Telegraph :—'  A  work  for  which 
he  was  eminently  fitted  by  his  tastes  and  predilections;  "Veranilda" 
is  an  historical  romance  such  as  we  rarely  see  in  our  modern  times.' 

Dr.  William  Barry  in  The  Bookman: — '  Pint  workmanship.  .  .  . 
It  belongs  emphatically  to  literature,  and  it  cannot  fail  to  give 
pleasure.' 

WILL  WARBURTON,  A  Romance  of  Real  Life. 

The  Westminster  Gazette  says : — '  So  smoothly  runs  the  narrative, 
so  simply  and  naturally  does  event  follow  upon  event  and  incident 
upon  incident,  that  over  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  problem  itself 
the  reader's  faculties  are  kept  in  abeyance,  and  only  when  he  has 
followed  Will  Warburton's  career  to  the  end  of  the  book  does  he 
realise,  in  retrospect,  how  fine  a  piece  of  literary  workmanship  is  here 
presented.  Th«  story  itself  and  the  handling  of  it  are  such  that 
in  closing  the  book  the  predominant  thought  is  one  which  has  been 
of  late  so  constantly  repeated  as  to  have  become  almost  wearisome, 
but  which  will  not  be  silenced.  It  is  the  regretful  thought  that  the 
volume  represents  the  last  touch  of  a  vanished  hand  and  the  last 
sound  of  a  voice  that  is  fled. 


THE   HOUSE 
OF   COBWEBS 

AND     OTHER    STORIES 

BY 

GEORGE    GISSING 


TO    WHICH    IS    PREFIXED 

THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

AN    INTRODUCTORY    SURVEY 

BY    THOMAS    SECCOMBE 


THIRn    IMPRESSION 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
1907 


Edinburgh :  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Maje«y 


CONTENTS 

PAQB 
THE   WORK    OF    GEORGE    GISSING  .  .  vii-liv 

A  CHRONOLOGICAL  RECORD          .  .  .  .          Iv 

THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  ....  1 

A  CAPITALIST     ......         28 

CHRISTOPHERSON  .  .  .  .  .47 

HUMPLEBEE         ......         68 

THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  .  .  .  .88 

A  POOR  GENTLEMAN      .  :         .  .  .  106 

MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  .  .  .  .  1 24 

A  CHARMING  FAMILY      .....       148 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE      .  .  .  .175 

THE  RIDING-WHIP          .....       192 

FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY      .  .  .  .215 

TOPHAM'S  CHANCE          .....       227 

A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND          .  .  .  .241 

THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH          ....       265 

THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  .  .  .  ,278 


THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY 

'  Les  gens  tout  a  fait  heureux,  forts  et  bien  portants,  sont-ils  pre- 
pares comme  il  faut  pour  comprandre,  pendtrer,  exprimer  la  vie, 

notro  vie  si  tourment^e  et  si  courte?'  MAUPASSANT. 

IN  England  during  the  sixties  and  seventies  of  last  century 
the  world  of  books  was  dominated  by  one  Gargantuan  type 
of  fiction.  The  terms  book  and  novel  became  almost 
synonymous  in  houses  which  were  not  Puritan,  yet  where 
books  and  reading,  in  the  era  of  few  and  unfree  libraries, 
were  strictly  circumscribed.  George  Gissing  was  no  excep- 
tion to  this  rule.  The  English  novel  was  at  the  summit  of 
its  reputation  during  his  boyish  days.  As  a  lad  of  eight  or 
nine  he  remembered  the  parts  of  Our  Mutual  Friend  coming 
to  the  house,  and  could  recall  the  smile  of  welcome  with  which 
they  were  infallibly  received.  In  the  dining-room  at  home 
was  a  handsomely  framed  picture  which  he  regarded  with  an 
almost  idolatrous  veneration.  It  was  an  engraved  portrait  of 
Charles  Dickens.  Some  of  the  best  work  of  George  Eliot, 
Reade,  and  Trollope  was  yet  to  make  its  appearance ; 
Meredith  and  Hardy  were  still  the  treasured  possession  of 
the  few ;  the  reigning  models  during  the  period  of  Gissing's 
adolescence  were  probably  Dickens  and  Trollope,  and  the 
numerous  satellites  of  these  great  stars,  prominent  among 
them  Wilkie  Collins,  William  Black,  and  Besant  and  Rice. 

Of  the  cluster  of  novelists  who  emerged  from  this  school 
of  ideas,  the  two  who  will  attract  most  attention  in  the 


viii        THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

future  were  clouded  and  obscured  for  the  greater  period  of 
their  working  lives.  Unobserved,  they  received,  and  made 
their  own  preparations  for  utilising,  the  legacy  of  the  mid- 
Victorian  novel — moral  thesis,  plot,  underplot,  set  characters, 
descriptive  machinery,  landscape  colouring,  copious  phrase- 
ology, Herculean  proportions,  and  the  rest  of  the  cumbrous 
and  grandiose  paraphernalia  of  Chuszlervit,  Pendemiis,  and 
Middlemarch.  But  they  received  the  legacy  in  a  totally  differ- 
ent spirit.  Mark  Rutherford,  after  a  very  brief  experiment, 
put  all  these  elaborate  properties  and  conventions  reverently 
aside.  Cleverer  and  more  docile,  George  Gissing  for  the 
most  part  accepted  them ;  he  put  his  slender  frame  into  the 
ponderous  collar  of  the  author  of  the  Mill  on  the  Floss,  and 
nearly  collapsed  in  wind  and  limb  in  the  heart-breaking 
attempt  to  adjust  himself  to  such  an  heroic  type  of  harness. 
The  distinctive  qualities  of  Gissing  at  the  time  of  his 
setting  forth  were  a  scholarly  style,  rather  fastidious  and 
academic  in  its  restraint,  and  the  personal  discontent, 
slightly  morbid,  of  a  self-conscious  student  who  finds  him- 
self in  the  position  of  a  sensitive  woman  in  a  crowd.  His 
attitude  through  life  was  that  of  a  man  who,  having  set  out 
on  his  career  with  the  understanding  that  a  second-class 
ticket  is  to  be  provided,  allows  himself  to  be  unceremoniously 
hustled  into  the  rough  and  tumble  of  a  noisy  third. 
Circumstances  made  him  revolt  against  an  anonymous 
start  in  life  for  a  refined  and  educated  man  under  such 
conditions.  They  also  made  him  prolific.  He  shrank  from 
the  restraints  and  humiliations  to  which  the  poor  and 
shabbily  dressed  private  tutor  is  exposed — revealed  to  us 
with  a  persuasive  terseness  in  the  pages  of  The  Unclassed, 
New  Grub  Street,  Ryecroft,  and  the  story  of  Topham's  Chance.' 
Writing  fiction  in  a  garret  for  a  sum  sufficient  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together  for  the  six  months  following  payment  was 
at  any  rate  better  than  this.  The  result  was  a  long  series 
of  highly  finished  novels,  written  in  a  style  and  from  a 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  ix 

point  of  view  which  will  always  render  them  dear  to  the 
studious  and  the  book-centred.  Upon  the  larger  external 
rings  of  the  book-reading  multitude  it  is  not  probable  that 
Gissing  will  ever  succeed  in  impressing  himself.  There  is 
an  absence  of  transcendental  quality  about  his  work,  a 
failure  in  humour,  a  remoteness  from  actual  life,  a  defi- 
ciency in  awe  and  mystery,  a  shortcoming  in  emotional 
power,  finally,  a  lack  of  the  dramatic  faculty,  not  indeed 
indispensable  to  a  novelist,  but  almost  indispensable  as  an 
ingredient  in  great  novels  of  this  particular  genre.1  In 
temperament  and  vitality  he  is  palpably  inferior  to  the 
masters  (Dickens,  Thackeray,  Hugo,  Balzac)  whom  he  rever- 
enced with  such  a  cordial  admiration  and  envy.  A  flow 
vitality '  may  account  for  what  has  been  referred  to  as  the 
'nervous  exhaustion '  of  his  style.  It  were  useless  to  pretend 
that  Gissing  belongs  of  right  to  the  '  first  series '  of  English 
Men  of  Letters.  But  if  debarred  by  his  limitations  from  a 
resounding  or  popular  success,  he  will  remain  exceptionally 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  recluse,  who  thinks  that  the  scholar 
does  well  to  cherish  a  grievance  against  the  vulgar  world 
beyond  the  cloister ;  and  dearer  still,  perhaps,  to  a  certain 
number  of  enthusiasts  who  began  reading  George  Gissing  as 
a  college  night-course;  who  closed  Thyrza  and  Demos  as  dawn 
was  breaking  through  the  elms  in  some  Oxford  quadrangle, 
and  who  have  pursued  his  work  patiently  ever  since  in  a 
somewhat  toilsome  and  broken  ascent,  secure  always  of  suave 
writing  and  conscientious  workmanship,  of  an  individual 
prose  cadence  and  a  genuine  vein  of  Penseroso  : — 

'  Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career  .  .  . 
Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-raven  sings. ' 


1  The  same  kind  of  limitations  would  have  to  be  postulated  in  estimating 
the  brothers  De  Goncourt,  who,  falling  short  of  the  first  magnitude,  have  yet 
a  fully  recognised  position  upon  the  stellar  atlas. 


x  THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

Yet  by  the  larger,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  intermediate 
public,  it  is  a  fact  that  Gissing  has  never  been  quite  fairly 
estimated.  He  loses  immensely  if  you  estimate  him  either 
by  a  single  book,  as  is  commonly  done,  or  by  his  work  as  a 
whole,  in  the  perspective  of  which,  owing  to  the  lack  of 
critical  instruction,  one  or  two  books  of  rather  inferior 
quality  have  obtruded  themselves  unduly.  This  brief  survey 
of  the  Gissing  country  is  designed  to  enable  the  reader  to 
judge  the  novelist  by  eight  or  nine  of  his  best  books.  If  we 
can  select  these  aright,  we  feel  sure  that  he  will  end  by 
placing  the  work  of  George  Gissing  upon  a  considerably 
higher  level  than  he  has  hitherto  done. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  to  write  the  history  of  his 
career — fuliginous  in  not  a  few  of  its  earlier  phases,  gather- 
ing serenity  towards  its  close, — finding  a  soul  of  goodness 
in  things  evil.  This  only  pretends  to  be  a  chronological 
and,  quite  incidentally,  a  critical  survey  of  George  Gissing's 
chief  works.  And  comparatively  short  as  his  working  life 
proved  to  be — hampered  for  ten  years  by  the  sternest 
poverty,  and  for  nearly  ten  more  by  the  sad,  illusive  optimism 
of  the  poitrinaire — the  task  of  the  mere  surveyor  is  no  light 
or  perfunctory  one.  Artistic  as  his  temperament  undoubtedly 
was,  and  conscientious  as  his  writing  appears  down  to  its 
minutest  detail,  Gissing  yet  managed  to  turn  out  rather  more 
than  a  novel  per  annum.  The  desire  to  excel  acted  as  a 
spur  which  conquered  his  congenital  inclination  to  dreamy 
historical  reverie.  The  reward  which  he  propounded  to 
himself  remained  steadfast  from  boyhood ;  it  was  a  kind 
of  Childe  Harold  pilgrimage  to  the  lands  of  antique  story — 

'  Whither  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley ; — aud  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprang  the  Epic  War.' 

Twenty-six  years  have  elapsed  since  the  appearance  of  his 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xi 

first  book  in  1880,  and  in  that  time  just  twenty-six  books  have 
been  issued  bearing  his  signature.  His  industry  was  worthy 
of  an  Anthony  Trollope,  and  cost  his  employers  barely  a  tithe 
of  the  amount  claimed  by  the  writer  of  The  Last  Chronicle  of 
Barset.  He  was  not  much  over  twenty-two  when  his  first 
novel  appeared.1  It  was  entitled  Workers  in  the  Danm,  and 
is  distinguished  by  the  fact  that  the  author  writes  himself 
George  Robert  Gissing ;  afterwards  he  saw  fit  to  follow  the 
example  of  George  Robert  Borrow,  and  in  all  subsequent  pro- 
ductions assumes  the  style  of  '  George  Gissing.'  The  book 
begins  in  this  fashion :  '  Walk  with  me,  reader,  into  Whitecross 
Street.  It  is  Saturday  night '  ;  and  it  is  what  it  here  seems, 
a  decidedly  crude  and  immature  performance.  Gissing  was 
encumbered  at  every  step  by  the  giant's  robe  of  mid- 
Victorian  fiction.  Intellectual  giants,  Dickens  and  Thackeray, 
were  equally  gigantic  spendthrifts.  They  worked  in  a  state 
of  fervid  heat  above  a  glowing  furnace,  into  which  they 
flung  lavish  masses  of  unshaped  metal,  caring  little  for 
immediate  effect  or  minute  dexterity  of  stroke,  but  knowing 
full  well  that  the  emotional  energy  of  their  temperaments 
was  capable  of  fusing  the  most  intractable  material,  and  that 
in  the  end  they  would  produce  their  great,  downright  effect. 
Their  spirits  rose  and  fell,  but  the  case  was  desperate,  copy 
had  to  be  despatched  for  the  current  serial.  Good  and  bad 
had  to  make  up  the  tale  against  time,  and  revelling  in  the 
very  exuberance  and  excess  of  their  humour,  the  novelists 
invariably  triumphed. 

To  the  Ercles  vein  of  these  Titans  of  fiction,  Gissing  was 
a  complete  stranger.  To  the  pale  and  fastidious  recluse  and 

1  Three  volfl.  8vo,  1880  (Remington).  It  was  noticed  at  some  length  in 
the  Athenaeum  of  June  12th,  in  which  the  author's  philosophic  outlook  is 
condemned  as  a  dangerous  compound  of  Schopenhauer,  Comte,  and  Shelley. 
It  is  somewhat  doubtful  if  he  ever  made  more  for  a  book  than  the  £250  he 
got  for  New  Grub  Street.  £200,  we  believe,  was  advanced  on  The  Nether 
World,  but  this  proved  anything  but  a  prosperous  speculation  from  the 
publisher's  point  of  view,  and  £150  was  refused  for  Born  in  Exile. 


xii         THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

anchorite,  their  tone  of  genial  remonstrance  with  the  world 
and  its  ways  was  totally  alien.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
world  to  start  with  beyond  the  den  of  the  student.  His 
second  book,  as  he  himself  described  it  in  the  preface  to  a 
second  edition,  was  the  work  of  a  very  young  man  who  dealt 
in  a  romantic  spirit  with  the  gloomier  facts  of  life.  Its  title, 
The  Unclassed,1  excited  a  little  curiosity,  but  the  author  was 
careful  to  explain  that  he  had  not  in  view  the  d&lasses  but 
rather  those  persons  who  live  in  a  limbo  external  to  society, 
and  refuse  the  statistic  badge.  The  central  figure  Osmond 
Waymark  is  of  course  Gissing  himself.  Like  his  creator, 
raving  at  intervals  under  the  vile  restraints  of  Philistine 
surroundings  and  with  no  money  for  dissipation,  Osmond 
gives  up  teaching  to  pursue  the  literary  vocation.  A  girl 
named  Ida  Starr  idealises  him,  and  is  helped  thereby 
to  a  purer  life.  In  the  four  years'  interval  between  this 
somewhat  hurried  work  and  his  still  earlier  attempt  the 
young  author  seems  to  have  gone  through  a  bewildering 
change  of  employments.  We  hear  of  a  clerkship  in  Liver- 
pool, a  searing  experience  in  America  (described  with  but 
little  deviation  in  New  Grub  Street),  a  gas-fitting  episode  in 
Boston,  private  tutorships,  and  cramming  engagements  in 
'the  poisonous  air  of  working  London.'  Internal  evidence 
alone  is  quite  sufficient  to  indicate  that  the  man  out 
of  whose  brain  such  bitter  experiences  of  the  educated 
poor  were  wrung  had  learnt  in  suffering  what  he  taught 
— in  his  novels.  His  start  in  literature  was  made  under 
conditions  that  might  have  appalled  the  bravest,  and  for 
years  his  steps  were  dogged  by  hunger  and  many-shaped 
hardships.  He  lived  in  cellars  and  garrets.  '  Many  a  time/ 
he  writes,  e  seated  in  just  such  a  garret  (as  that  in  the 
frontispiece  to  Little  Dorrit)  I  saw  the  sunshine  flood  the 
table  in  front  of  me,  and  the  thought  of  that  book  rose  up 

1  Three  vols.,  1884,  dedicated  to  M.  C.  E.    In  one  volume  'revised,'  1895 
(preface  dated  October  1895). 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xiii 

before  me.'  He  ate  his  meals  in  places  that  would  have 
offered  a  way-wearied  tramp  occasion  for  criticism.  '  His 
breakfast  consisted  often  of  a  slice  of  bread  and  a  drink  of 
water.  Four  and  sixpence  a  week  paid  for  his  lodging.  A 
meal  that  cost  more  than  sixpence  was  a  feast.'  Once  he 
tells  us  with  a  thrill  of  reminiscent  ecstasy  how  he  found 
sixpence  in  the  street !  The  ordinary  comforts  of  modern 
life  were  unattainable  luxuries.  Once  when  a  newly  posted 
notice  in  the  lavatory  at  the  British  Museum  warned  readers 
that  the  basins  were  to  be  used  (in  official  phrase)  c  for  casual 
ablutions  only,'  he  was  abashed  at  the  thought  of  his  own 
complete  dependence  upon  the  facilities  of  the  place.  Justly 
might  the  author  call  this  a  tragi-comical  incident.  Often 
in  happier  times  he  had  brooding  memories  of  the  familiar 
old  horrors — the  foggy  and  gas-lit  labyrinth  of  Soho — shop 
windows  containing  puddings  and  pies  kept  hot  by  steam 
rising  through  perforated  metal — a  young  novelist  of  '  two- 
and-twenty  or  thereabouts '  standing  before  the  display, 
raging  with  hunger,  unable  to  purchase  even  one  pennyworth 
of  food.  And  this  is  no  fancy  picture,1  but  a  true  story  of  what 
Gissing  had  sufficient  elasticity  of  humour'to  call '  a  pretty 
stern  apprenticeship.'  The  sense  of  it  enables  us  to  under 
stand  to  the  full  that  semi-ironical  and  bitter,  yet  not 
wholly  unamused  passage,  in  Ryecroft : — 

'  Is  there  at  this  moment  any  boy  of  twenty,  fairly  educated, 
but  without  means,  without  help,  with  nothing  but  the  glow  in 
his  brain  and  steadfast  courage  in  his  heart,  who  sits  in  a  London 
garret  and  writes  for  dear  life  ?  There  must  be,  I  suppose  ;  yet  all 
that  I  have  read  and  heard  of  late  years  about  young  writers, 
•hows  them  in  a  very  different  aspect.  No  garretteers,  these 
novelists  and  journalists  awaiting  their  promotion.  They  eat — 
and  entertain  their  critics — at  fashionable  restaurants,  they  are 
seen  in  expensive  seats  at  the  theatre ;  they  inhabit  handsome 

1  Who  bat  Gissing  could  describe  a  heroine  as  exhibiting  in  her  counte- 
nance '  habitual  nourishment  on  good  and  plenteous  food'  ? 


xiv        THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

flats— photographed  for  an  illustrated  paper  on  the  first  excuse. 
At  the  worst,  they  belong  to  a  reputable  club,  and  have  garments 
which  permit  them  to  attend  a  garden  party  or  an  evening  ( '  at 
home  "  without  attracting  unpleasant  notice.  Many  biographical 
sketches  have  I  read  during  the  last  decade,  making  personal 
introduction  of  young  Mr.  This  or  young  Miss  That,  whose  book 
was — as  the  sweet  language  of  the  day  will  have  it — "booming"  ; 
but  never  one  in  which  there  was  a  hint  of  stern  struggles,  of  the 
pinched  stomach  and  frozen  fingers.' 

In  his  later  years  it  was  customary  for  him  to  inquire  of  a 
new  author  '  Has  he  starved '  ?  He  need  have  been  under 
no  apprehension.  There  is  still  a  God's  plenty  of  attics  in 
Grub  Street,  tenanted  by  genuine  artists,  idealists  and 
poets,  amply  sufficient  to  justify  the  lamentable  conclusion 
of  old  Anthony  a  Wood  in  his  life  of  George  Peele.  '  For  so 
it  is  and  always  hath  been,  that  most  poets  die  poor,  and 
consequently  obscurely,  and  a  hard  matter  it  is  to  trace 
them  to  their  graves.'  Amid  all  these  miseries,  Gissing 
upheld  his  ideal.  During  1886-7  he  began  really  to  write 
and  the  first  great  advance  is  shown  in  Isabel  Clarendon.1 
No  book,  perhaps,  that  he  ever  wrote  is  so  rich  as  this 
in  autobiographical  indices.  In  the  melancholy  Kingcote 
we  get  more  than  a  passing  phase  or  a  momentary 
glimpse  at  one  side  of  the  young  author.  A  long  succession 
of  Kingcote's  traits  are  obvious  self-revelations.  At  the 
beginning  he  symbolically  prefers  the  old  road  with  the 
crumbling  sign-post,  to  the  new.  Kingcote  is  a  literary 
sensitive.  The  most  ordinary  transaction  with  uneducated 
('  that  is  uncivilised ')  people  made  him  uncomfortable. 
Mean  and  hateful  people  by  their  suggestions  made  life 
hideous.  He  lacks  the  courage  of  the  ordinary  man 
Though  under  thirty  he  is  abashed  by  youth.  He  is  senti- 

1  Isabel  Clarendon.  By  George  Gissing.  In  two  volumes,  1886  (Chap- 
man and  Hall).  In  reviewing  this  work  the  Academy  expressed  astonishment 
at  the  mature  style  of  the  writer — of  whom  it  admitted  it  had  not  ret  come 
across  the  name. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xv 

mental  and  hungry  for  feminine  sympathy,  yet  he  realises 
that  the  woman  who  may  with  safety  be  taken  in  marriage 
by  a  poor  man,  given  to  intellectual  pursuits,  is  extremely 
difficult  of  discovery.  Consequently  he  lives  in  solitude ;  he 
is  tyrannised  by  moods,  dominated  by  temperament.  His 
intellect  is  in  abeyance.  He  shuns  the  present — the 
historical  past  seems  alone  to  concern  him.  Yet  he  abjures 
his  own  past.  The  ghost  of  his  former  self  affected  him 
with  horror.  Identity  even  he  denies.  '  How  can  one  be 
responsible  for  the  thoughts  and  acts  of  the  being  who  bore 
his  name  years  ago  ? '  He  has  no  consciousness  of  his  youth 
— no  sympathy  with  children.  In  him  is  to  be  discerned 
'his  father's  intellectual  and  emotional  qualities,  together 
with  a  certain  stiffness  of  moral  attitude  derived  from  his 
mother.'  He  reveals  already  a  wonderful  palate  for  pure 
literary  flavour.  His  prejudices  are  intense,  their  character 
being  determined  by  the  refinement  and  idealism  of  his 
nature.  All  this  is  profoundly  significant,  knowing  as  we  do 
that  this  was  produced  when  Gissing's  worldly  prosperity 
was  at  its  nadir.  He  was  living  at  the  time,  like  his  own 
Harold  BifFen,  in  absolute  solitude,  a  frequenter  of  pawn- 
broker's shops  and  a  stern  connoisseur  of  pure  dripping, 
pease  pudding  ('magnificent  pennyworths  at  a  shop  in 
Cleveland  Street,  of  a  very  rich  quality  indeed '),  faggots  and 
saveloys.  The  stamp  of  affluence  in  those  days  was  the 
possession  of  a  basin.  The  rich  man  thus  secured  the 
gravy  which  the  poor  man,  who  relied  on  a  paper  wrapper 
for  his  pease  pudding,  had  to  give  away.  The  image 
recurred  to  his  mind  when,  in  later  days,  he  discussed 
champagne  vintages  with  his  publisher,  or  was  consulted 
as  to  the  management  of  butlers  by  the  wife  of  a  popular 
prelate.  With  what  a  sincere  recollection  of  this  time  he 
enjoins  his  readers  (after  Dr.  Johnson)  to  abstain  from 
Poverty.  '  Poverty  is  the  great  secluder.'  '  London  is  a 
wilderness  abounding  in  anchorites.'  Gissing  was  sustained 


xvi        THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

amid  all  these  miseries  by  two  passionate  idealisms,  one  of 
the  intellect,  the  other  of  the  emotions.  The  first  was 
ancient  Greece  and  Rome — and  he  incarnated  this  passion 
in  the  picturesque  figure  of  Julian  Casti  (in  The  Unclassed), 
toiling  hard  to  purchase  a  Gibbon,  savouring  its  grand  epic 
roll,  converting  its  driest  detail  into  poetry  by  means  of  his 
enthusiasm,  and  selecting  Stilicho  as  a  hero  of  drama  or 
romance  (a  premonition  here  of  Veranilda).  The  second  or 
heart's  idol  was  Charles  Dickens — Dickens  as  writer,  Dickens 
as  the  hero  of  a  past  England,  Dickens  as  humorist,  Dickens 
as  leader  of  men,  above  all,  Dickens  as  friend  of  the  poor, 
the  outcast,  the  pale  little  sempstress  and  the  downtrodden 
Smike. 

In  the  summer  of  1870,  Gissing  remembered  with  a  pious 
fidelity  of  detail  the  famous  drawing  of  the  '  Empty  Chair ' 
being  framed  and  hung  up  '  in  the  school-room,  at  home ' l 
(Wakefield). 

'Not  without  awe  did  I  see  the  picture  of  the  room  which  was 
now  tenantless  :  I  remember  too,  a  curiosity  which  led  me  to  look 
closely  at  the  writing-table  and  the  objects  upon  it,  at  the  comfort- 
able round-backed  chair,  at  the  book-shelves  behind.  I  began  to 

1  Of  Gissing's  early  impressions,  the  best  connected  account,  I  think,  is  to 
be  gleaned  from  the  concluding  chapters  of  The  Whirlpool ;  but  this  may 
be  reinforced  (and  to  some  extent  corrected,  or,  here  and  there  cancelled) 
by  passages  in  Born  in  Exile  (vol.  i.)  and  in  Ryecroft.  The  material  there 
supplied  is  confirmatory  in  the  best  sense  of  the  detail  contributed  by 
Mr.  "Wells  to  the  cancelled  preface  of  Veranilda,  touching  the  '  schoolboy, 
obsessed  by  a  consuming  passion  for  learning,  at  the  Quaker's  boarding- 
school  at  Alderley.  He  had  come  thither  from  Wakefield  at  the  age  of 
thirteen — after  the  death  of  his  father,  who  was,  in  a  double  sense,  the 
cardinal  formative  influence  in  his  life.  The  tones  of  his  father's  voice,  his 
father's  gestures,  never  departed  from  him ;  when  he  read  aloud,  particularly 
if  it  was  poetry  he  read,  his  father  returned  in  him.  He  could  draw  in 
those  days  with  great  skill  and  vigour — it  will  seem  significant  to  many  that 
he  was  particularly  fascinated  by  Hogarth's  work,  and  that  he  copied  and 
imitated  it ;  and  his  father's  well-stocked  library,  and  his  father's  encourage- 
ment, had  quickened  his  imagination  and  given  it  its  enduring  bias  for  literary 
activity.'  Like  Defoe,  Smollett,  Sterne,  Borrow,  Dickens,  Eliot,  'G.  G.'  is, 
half  involuntarily,  almost  unconsciously  autobiographic. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xvii 

ask  myself  how  books  were  written  and  how  the  men  lived  who 
wrote  them.  It  is  my  last  glimpse  of  childhood.  Six  months 
later  there  was  an  empty  chair  in  my  own  home,  and  the  tenor  of 
my  life  was  broken. 

'  Seven  years  after  this  I  found  myself  amid  the  streets  of  London 
and  had  to  find  the  means  of  keeping  myself  alive.  What  I  chiefly 
thought  of  was  that  now  at  length  I  could  go  hither  or  thither  in 
London's  immensity  seeking  for  the  places  which  had  been  made 
known  to  me  by  Dickens. 

'  One  day  in  the  city  I  found  myself  at  the  entrance  to  Bevis 
Marks  !  I  had  just  been  making  an  application  in  reply  to  some 
advertisement — of  course,  fruitlessly;  but  what  was  that  disappoint- 
ment compared  with  the  discovery  of  Bevis  Marks  !  Here  dwelt 
Mr.  Brass  and  Sally  and  the  Marchioness.  Up  and  down  the 
little  street,  this  side  and  that,  I  went  gazing  and  dreaming.  No 
press  of  busy  folk  disturbed  me ;  the  place  was  quiet ;  it  looked 
no  doubt  much  the  same  as  when  Dickens  knew  it.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  had  any  dinner  that  day ;  but,  if  not,  I  daresay  I  did 
not  mind  it  very  much. ' 

The  broad  flood  under  Thames  bridges  spoke  to  him  in 
the  very  tones  of  'the  master.'  He  breathed  Guppy's 
London  particular,  the  wind  was  the  black  caster  that 
pierced  the  diaphragm  of  Scrooge's  clerk. 

'  We  bookish  people  hare  our  connotations  for  the  life  we  do 
not  live.  In  time  I  came  to  see  London  with  my  own  eyes,  but 
how  much  better  when  I  saw  it  with  those  of  Dickens  ! ' 

Tired  and  discouraged,  badly  nourished,  badly  housed — 
working  under  conditions  little  favourable  to  play  of  the 
fancy  or  intentness  of  the  mind — then  was  the  time, 
Gissing  found,  to  take  down  Forster  and  read — read  about 
Charles  Dickens. 

'  Merely  as  the  narrative  of  a  wonderfully  active,  zealous,  and 
successful  life,  this  book  scarce  has  its  equal ;  almost  any  reader 
must  find  it  exhilarating;  but  to  me  it  yielded  such  special 
sustenance  as  in  those  days  I  could  not  have  found  elsewhere,  and 
lacking  which  I  should,  perhaps,  have  failed  by  the  way.  I  am 

b 


xviii      THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

not  referring  to  Dickens's  swift  triumph,  to  his  resounding  fame 
and  high  prosperity ;  these  things  are  cheery  to  read  about, 
especially  when  shown  in  a  light  so  human,  with  the  accompani- 
ment of  so  much  geniality  and  mirth.  No ;  the  pages  which 
invigorated  me  are  those  where  we  see  Dickens  at  work,  alone 
at  his  writing-table,  absorbed  in  the  task  of  the  story-teller. 
Constantly  he  makes  known  to  Forster  how  his  story  is  getting 
on,  speaks  in  detail  of  difficulties,  rejoices  over  spells  of  happy 
labour ;  and  what  splendid  sincerity  in  it  all !  If  this  work  of 
his  was  not  worth  doing,  why,  nothing  was.  A  troublesome  letter 
has  arrived  by  the  morning's  post  and  threatens  to  spoil  the  day  ; 
but  he  takes  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  shakes  off  the 
worry,  and  sits  down  to  write  for  hours  and  hours.  He  is  at  the 
sea-side,  his  desk  at  a  sunny  bay  window  overlooking  the  shore, 
and  there  all  the  morning  he  writes  with  gusto,  ever  and  again 
bursting  into  laughter  at  his  own  thoughts.' 1 

The  influence  of  Dickens  clearly  predominated  when 
Gissing  wrote  his  next  novel  and  first  really  notable  and 
artistic  book,  Thyrza.?  The  figure  which  irradiates  this 
story  is  evidently  designed  in  the  school  of  Dickens  :  it 
might  almost  be  a  pastel  after  some  more  highly  finished 
work  by  Daudet.  But  Daudet  is  a  more  relentless  observer 
than  Gissing,  and  to  find  a  parallel  to  this  particular  effect 
I  think  we  must  go  back  a  little  farther  to  the  heroic 
age  of  the  grisette  and  the  tearful  Manchon  de  Francine 
of  Henri  Murger.  Thyrza,  at  any  rate,  is  a  most  exquisite 

1  See  a  deeply  interesting  paper  on  Dickens  by  'G.  G.'  in  the  New  York 
Critic,  Jan.  1902.     Much  of  this  is  avowed  autobiography. 

2  Thyrza:  A  Novel  (3  vols.,  1887).     In  later  life  we  are  told  that  Gissing 
affected  to  despise  this  book  as  '  a  piece  of  boyish  idealism.'   But  he  was  always 
greatly  pleased  by  any  praise  of  this  '  study  of  two  sisters,  where  poverty 
for  once  is  rainbow-tinted  by  love.'    My  impression  is  that  it  was  written 
before  Demos,  but  was  longer  in  finding  a  publisher ;  it  had  to  wait  until  the 
way  was  prepared  by  its  coarser  and  more  vigorous  workfellow.     A  friend 
writes :  '  I  well  remember  the  appearance  of  the  MS.    Gissing  wrote  then  on 
thin  foreign  paper  in  a  small,  thin  handwriting,  without  correction.     It  was 
before  the  days  of  typewriting,  and  the  MS.  of  a  three-volume  novel  was 
so  compressed  that  one  could  literally  put  it  in  one's  pocket  without  the 
slightest  inconvenience."    The  name  is  from  Byron's  Elegy  on  Thyrza. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xix 

picture  in  half-tones  of  grey  and  purple  of  a  little  Madonna 
of  the  slums ;  she  is  in  reality  the  belle  fleur  d'un  fumier 
of  which  he  speaks  in  the  epigraph  of  the  Nether  World. 
The  fumier  in  question  is  Lambeth  Walk,  of  which  we 
have  a  Saturday  night  scene,  worthy  of  the  author  of 
L'Assommoir  and  Le  Venire  de  Paris  in  his  most  per- 
ceptive mood.  In  this  inferno,  amongst  the  pungent 
odours,  musty  smells  and  '  acrid  exhalations  from  the 
shops  where  fried  fish  and  potatoes  hissed  in  boiling  grease/ 
blossomed  a  pure  white  lily,  as  radiant  amid  mean  sur- 
roundings as  Gemma  in  the  poor  Frankfort  confectioner's 
shop  of  Turgenev's  Eaux  Printanieres.  The  pale  and  rather 
languid  charm  of  her  face  and  figure  are  sufficiently  por- 
trayed without  any  set  description.  What  could  be  more 
delicate  than  the  intimation  of  the  foregone  'good-night' 
between  the  sisters,  or  the  scene  of  Lyddy  plaiting  Thyrza's 
hair  ?  The  delineation  of  the  upper  middle  class  culture  by 
which  this  exquisite  flower  of  maidenhood  is  first  caressed 
and  transplanted,  then  slighted  and  left  to  wither,  is  not 
so  satisfactory.  Of  the  upper  middle  class,  indeed,  at  that 
time,  Gissing  had  very  few  means  of  observation.  But  this 
defect,  common  to  all  his  early  novels,  is  more  than  com- 
pensated by  the  intensely  pathetic  figure  of  Gilbert  Grail, 
the  tender-souled,  book-worshipping  factory  hand  raised  for 
a  moment  to  the  prospect  of  intellectual  life  and  then 
hurled  down  by  the  caprice  of  circumstance  to  the  unrelent- 
ing round  of  manual  toil  at  the  soap  and  candle  factory. 
Dickens  would  have  given  a  touch  of  the  grotesque  to  Grail's 
gentle  but  ungainly  character ;  but  at  the  end  he  would 
infallibly  have  rewarded  him  as  Tom  Pinch  and  Dominie 
Sampson  were  rewarded.  Not  so  George  Gissing.  His 
sympathy  is  fully  as  real  as  that  of  Dickens.  But  his 
fidelity  to  fact  is  greater.  Of  the  Christmas  charity  pre- 
scribed by  Dickens,  and  of  the  untainted  pathos  to  which 
he  too  rarely  attained,  there  is  an  abundance  in  Thyrza. 


xx         THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

But  what  amazes  the  chronological  student  of  Gissing's 
work  is  the  magnificent  quality  of  some  of  the  writing, 
a  quality  of  which  he  had  as  yet  given  no  very  definite 
promise.  Take  the  following  passage,  for  example  : — 

'  A  street  organ  began  to  play  in  front  of  a  public-house  close 
by.  Grail  drew  near ;  there  were  children  forming  a  dance,  and 
he  stood  to  watch  them. 

Do  you  know  that  music  of  the  obscure  ways,  to  which  children 
dance?  Not  if  you  have  only  heard  it  ground  to  your  ears' 
affliction  beneath  your  windows  in  the  square.  To  hear  it  aright 
you  must  stand  in  the  darkness  of  such  a  by-street  as  this,  and  for 
the  moment  be  at  one  with  those  who  dwell  around,  in  the  blear- 
eyed  houses,  in  the  dim  burrows  of  poverty,  in  the  unmapped 
haunts  of  the  semi-human.  Then  you  will  know  the  significance 
of  that  vulgar  clanging  of  melody ;  a  pathos  of  which  you  did 
not  dream  will  touch  you,  and  therein  the  secret  of  hidden  London 
will  be  half  revealed.  The  life  of  men  who  toil  without  hope,  yet 
with  the  hunger  of  an  unshaped  desire ;  of  women  in  whom  the 
sweetness  of  their  sex  is  perishing  under  labour  and  misery ;  the 
laugh,  the  song  of  the  girl  who  strives  to  enjoy  her  year  or  two 
of  youthful  vigour,  knowing  the  darkness  of  the  years  to  come  ; 
the  careless  defiance  of  the  youth  who  feels  his  blood  and  revolts 
against  the  lot  which  would  tame  it ;  all  that  is  purely  human  in 
these  darkened  multitudes  speaks  to  you  as  you  listen.  It  is  the 
half-conscious  striving  of  a  nature  which  knows  not  what  it 
would  attain,  which  deforms  a  true  thought  by  gross  expression, 
which  clutches  at  the  beautiful  and  soils  it  with  foul  hands. 

The  children  were  dirty  and  ragged,  several  of  them  bare- 
footed, nearly  all  bare-headed,  but  they  danced  with  noisy 
merriment.  One  there  was,  a  little  girl,  on  crutches ;  incapable 
of  taking  a  partner,  she  stumped  round  and  round,  circling 
upon  the  pavement,  till  giddiness  came  upon  her  and  she  had 
to  fall  back  and  lean  against  the  \vall,  laughing  aloud  at  her 
weakness.  Gilbert  stepped  up  to  her,  and  put  a  penny  into  her 
hand ;  then,  before  she  had  recovered  from  her  surprise,  passed 
onwards.' — (p.  111.) 

This  superb  piece  of  imaginative  prose,  of  which  Short- 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xxi 

house  himself  might  have  been  proud,1  is  recalled  by  an 
answering  note  in  Ryecroft,  in  which  he  says,  '  I  owe  many 
a  page  to  the  street-organs.' 

And,  where  the  pathos  has  to  be  distilled  from  dialogue, 
I  doubt  if  the  author  of  Jack  himself  could  have  written 
anything  more  restrainedly  touching  or  in  a  finer  taste  than 
this  :— 

'  Laughing  with  kindly  mirth,  the  old  man  drew  on  his  woollen 
gloves  and  took  up  his  hat  and  the  violin-bag.  Then  he  offered 
to  say  good-bye. 

"  But  you  're  forgetting  your  top-coat,  grandad,"  said  Lydia. 

"I  didn't  come  in  it,  my  dear." 

"  What 's  that,  then  ?    I  'm  sure  we  don't  wear  such  things." 

She  pointed  to  a  chair,  on  which  Thyrza  had  just  artfully 
spread  the  gift.  Mr.  Boddy  looked  in  a  puzzled  way ;  had  he 
really  come  in  his  coat  and  forgotten  it  ?  He  drew  nearer. 

"That's  no  coat  o'  mine,  Lyddy,"  he  said. 

Thyrza  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Why,  whose  is  it,  then  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Don't  play  tricks, 
grandad  ;  put  it  on  at  once  ! " 

"  Now  come,  come  ;  you  're  keeping  Mary  waiting,"  said  Lydia, 
catching  up  the  coat  and  holding  it  ready. 

Then  Mr.  Boddy  understood.  He  looked  from  Lydia  to 
Thyrza  with  dimmed  eyes. 

"  I  've  a  good  mind  never  to  speak  to  either  of  you  again,"  he 
said  in  a  tremulous  voice.  "  As  if  you  hadn't  need  enough  of  your 
money !  Lyddy,  Lyddy  !  And  you  're  as  bad,  Thyrza,  a  grown- 
up woman  like  you  ;  you  ought  to  teach  your  sister  better.  Why, 
there ;  it 's  no  good ;  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  Now 
what  do  you  think  of  this,  Mary  ?  " 

Lydia  still  held  up  the  coat,  and  at  length  persuaded  the  old 
man  to  don  it.  The  effect  upon  his  appearance  was  remarkable ; 
conscious  of  it,  he  held  himself  more  upright  and  stumped  to  the 
little  square  of  looking-glass  to  try  and  regard  himself.  Here  he 
furtively  brushed  a  hand  over  his  eyes. 

1  I  am  thinking,  in  particular,  of  the  old  vielle- player's  conversation  in 
chap,  xiiii.  of  John  Inglesant ;  of  the  exquisite  passage  on  old  dance  music 
— its  inexpressible  pathos— in  chap.  xxv. 


xxii       THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

"I'm  ready,  Mary,  my  dear ;  I'm  ready  !  It's  no  good  saying 
anything  to  girls  like  these.  Good-bye,  Lyddy ;  good-bye,  Thyrza. 
May  you  have  a  happy  Christmas,  children  !  This  isn't  the  first 
as  you've  made  a  happy  one  for  me." ' — (p.  117.) 

The  anonymously  published  Demos  (1886)  can  hardly  be 
described  as  a  typical  product  of  George  Gissing's  mind  and 
art.  In  it  he  subdued  himself  rather  to  the  level  of  such 
popular  producers  as  Besant  and  Rice,  and  went  out  of  his 
way  to  procure  melodramatic  suspense,  an  ingredient  far 
from  congenial  to  his  normal  artistic  temper.  But  the  end 
justified  the  means.  The  novel  found  favour  in  the  eyes  of 
the  author  of  The  Lost  Sir  Massingberd,  and  Gissing  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  found  himself  the  possessor  of  a  full 
purse,  with  fifty  'jingling,  tingling,  golden,  minted  quid' 
in  it.  Its  possession  brought  with  it  the  realisation  of  a 
paramount  desire,  the  desire  for  Greece  and  Italy  which  had 
become  for  him,  as  it  had  once  been  with  Goethe,  a  scarce 
endurable  suffering.  The  sickness  of  longing  had  wellnigh 
given  way  to  despair,  when  'there  came  into  my  hands  a 
sum  of  money  (such  a  poor  little  sum)  for  a  book  I  had 
written.  It  was  early  autumn.  I  chanced  to  hear  some 
one  speak  of  Naples — and  only  death  would  have  held  me 
back.' l 

The  main  plot  of  Demos  is  concerned  with  Richard 
Mutimer,  a  young  socialist  whose  vital  force,  both  mental 
and  physical,  is  well  above  the  average,  corrupted  by  acces- 

1  See  Emancipated,  chaps,  iv.-xii. ;  New  Grub  Street,  chap,  xxvii. ; 
Ryecroft,  Autumn  xix. ;  the  short,  not  superior,  novel  called  Sleeping  Fires, 
1895,  chap.  i.  'An  encounter  on  the  Kerameikos';  The  Albany,  Christmas 
1904,  p.  27 ;  and  Monthly  Review,  vol.  xvi.  '  He  went  straight  by  sea  to  the 
land  of  his  dreams — Italy.  It  was  still  happily  before  the  enterprise  of 
touring  agencies  had  robbed  the  idea  of  Italian  travel  of  its  last  vestiges  of 
magic.  He  spent  as  much  time  as  he  could  afford  about  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
and  then  came  on  with  a  rejoicing  heart  to  Rome — Rome,  whose  topography 
had  been  with  him  since  boyhood,  beside  whose  stately  history  the  confused 
tumult  of  the  contemporary  newspapers  seemed  to  him  no  more  than  a  noisy, 
unmeaning  persecution  of  the  mind,  Afterwards  he  went  to  Athens.' 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY          xxiii 

sion  to  a  fortune,  marrying  a  refined  wife,  losing  his  money 
in  consequence  of  the  discovery  of  an  unsuspected  will, 
and  dragging  his  wife  down  with  him, — down  to  la  misere 
in  its  most  brutal  and  humiliating  shape.  Happy  endings 
and  the  Gissing  of  this  period  are  so  ill-assorted,  that  the 
'reconciliations'  at  the  close  of  both  this  novel  and  the 
next  are  to  be  regarded  with  considerable  suspicion.  The 
'gentlefolk'  in  the  book  are  the  merest  marionettes,  but 
there  are  descriptive  passages  of  first-rate  vigour,  and  the 
voice  of  wisdom  is  heard  from  the  lips  of  an  early  Greek 
choregus  in  the  figure  of  an  old  parson  called  Mr.  Wyvern. 
As  the  mouthpiece  of  his  creator's  pet  hobbies  parson  Wyvern 
rolls  out  long  homilies  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  Emerson's 
'compensation,'  and  denounces  the  cruelty  of  educating 
the  poor  and  making  no  after-provision  for  their  intellectual 
needs  with  a  sombre  enthusiasm  and  a  periodicity  of  style 
almost  worthy  of  Dr.  Johnson.1 

After  Demos,  Gissing  returned  in  1888  to  the  more  senti- 
mental and  idealistic  palette  which  he  had  employed  for 
Thyrza.  Renewed  recollections  of  Tibullus  and  of  Theocritus 
may  have  served  to  give  his  work  a  more  idyllic  tinge.  But 
there  were  much  nearer  sources  of  inspiration  for  A  Life's 
Morning.  There  must  be  many  novels  inspired  by  a  youthful 
enthusiasm  for  Richard  Feverel,  and  this  I  should  take  to  be 
one  of  them.  Apart  from  the  idyllic  purity  of  its  tone,  and 
its  sincere  idolatry  of  youthful  love,  the  caressing  grace  of 
the  language  which  describes  the  spiritualised  beauty  of 
Emily  Hood  and  the  exquisite  charm  of  her  slender  hands, 

1  An  impressive  specimen  of  his  eloquence  was  cited  by  me  in  an  article 
in  the  Daily  Mail  Year  Book  (1906,  p.  2).  A  riper  study  of  a  somewhat 
similar  character  is  given  in  old  Mr.  Lashmar  in  Our  Friend,  the  Charlatan. 
(See  his  sermon  on  the  blasphemy  which  would  have  us  pretend  that  our 
civilisation  obeys  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  in  chap,  xviii.).  For  a  criticism 
of  Demos  and  Thyrza  in  juxtaposition  with  Besant's  Children  of  Qibeon,  see 
Miss  Sichel  on  '  Philanthropic  Novelists '  (Murray's  Magazine,  iii.  506-518). 
Gissing  saw  deeper  than  to  '  cease  hia  music  on  a  merry  chord.' 


xxiv      THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

and  the  silvery  radiance  imparted  to  the  whole  scene  of  the 
proposal  in  the  summer-house  (in  chapter  iii.,  'Lyrical'), 
give  to  this  most  unequal  and  imperfect  book  a  certain 
crepuscular  fascination  of  its  own.  Passages  in  it,  certainly, 
are  not  undeserving  that  fine  description  of  a  style  si  tendre 
qu'il  pousse  le  bonheur  a  pleurer.  Emily's  father,  Mr.  Hood, 
is  an  essentially  pathetic  figure,  almost  grotesquely  true 
to  life.  '  I  should  like  to  see  London  before  I  die,'  he 
says  to  his  daughter.  '  Somehow  I  have  never  managed  to 
get  so  far.  .  .  .  There's  one  thing  that  I  wish  especially  to 
see,  and  that  is  Holborn  Viaduct.  It  must  be  a  wonderful 
piece  of  engineering;  I  remember  thinking  it  out  at  the 
time  it  was  constructed.  Of  course  you  have  seen  it?' 
The  vulgar  but  not  wholly  inhuman  Cartwright  interior, 
where  the  parlour  is  resolved  into  a  perpetual  matrimonial 
committee,  would  seem  to  be  the  outcome  of  genuine 
observation.  Dagworthy  is  obviously  padded  with  the 
author's  substitute  for  melodrama,  while  the  rich  and 
cultivated  Mr.  Athel  is  palpably  imitated  from  Meredith. 
The  following  tirade  (spoken  by  the  young  man  to  his 
mistress)  is  Gissing  pure.  ' Think  of  the  sunny  spaces 
in  the  world's  history,  in  each  of  which  one  could  linger 
for  ever.  Athens  at  her  fairest,  Rome  at  her  grandest, 
the  glorious  savagery  of  Merovingian  Courts,  the  kingdom 
of  Frederick  n.,  the  Moors  in  Spain,  the  magic  of  Renais- 
sance Italy — to  become  a  citizen  of  any  one  age  means  a 
lifetime  of  endeavour.  It  is  easy  to  fill  one's  head  with 
names  and  years,  but  that  only  sharpens  my  hunger.'  In 
one  form  or  another  it  recurs  in  practically  every  novel.1 
Certain  of  the  later  portions  of  this  book,  especially  the 

1  Sometimes,  however,  as  in  The  Whirlpool  (1897)  with  a  very  significant 
change  of  intonation : — '  And  that  History  which  he  loved  to  read — what  was 
it  but  the  lurid  record  of  woes  unutterable  !  How  could  he  find  pleasure  in 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  century  after  century  of  ever-repeated  torment — 
war,  pestilence,  tyranny ;  the  stake,  the  dungeon ;  torturea  of  infinite  device, 
cruelties  inconceivable  ? '—(p.  326.) 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xxv 

chapter  entitled  'Her  Path  in  Shadow'  are  delineated 
through  a  kind  of  mystical  haze,  suggestive  of  some  of 
the  work  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes.  The  concluding  chapters, 
taken  as  a  whole,  indicate  with  tolerable  accuracy  Gissing's 
affinities  as  a  writer,  and  the  pedigree  of  the  type  of 
novel  by  which  he  is  best  known.  It  derives  from  Xavier 
de  Maistre  and  St.  Pierre  to  La  Nouvelle  Helolse, — nay, 
might  one  not  almost  say  from  the  pays  du  tendre  of  La 
Princesse  de  Cleves  itself.  Semi-sentimental  theories  as  to 
the  relations  of  the  sexes,  the  dangers  of  indiscriminate 
education,  the  corruptions  of  wretchedness  and  poverty  in 
large  towns,  the  neglect  of  literature  and  classical  learning, 
and  the  grievances  of  scholarly  refinement  in  a  world  in 
which  Greek  iambic  and  Latin  hexameter  count  for  nothing, 
— such  form  the  staple  of  his  theses  and  tirades !  His 
approximation  at  times  to  the  confines  of  French  realistic 
art  is  of  the  most  accidental  or  incidental  kind.  For 
Gissing  is  at  heart,  in  his  bones  as  the  vulgar  say,  a  thorough 
moralist  and  sentimentalist,  an  honest,  true-born,  downright 
ineradicable  Englishman.  Intellectually  his  own  life  was, 
and  continued  to  the  last  to  be,  romantic  to  an  extent  that 
few  lives  are.  Pessimistic  he  may  at  times  appear,  but  this 
is  almost  entirely  on  the  surface.  For  he  was  never  in  the 
least  blase  or  ennuye.  He  had  the  pathetic  treasure  of  the 
humble  and  downcast  and  unkindly  entreated — unquench- 
able hope.  He  has  no  objectivity.  His  point  of  view  is 
almost  entirely  personal.  It  is  not  the  lacrimae  rerum, 
but  the  lacrimae  dierum  suorum,  that  makes  his  pages  often 
so  forlorn.  His  laments  are  all  uttered  by  the  waters  of 
Babylon  in  a  strange  land.  His  nostalgia  in  the  land  of  exile, 
estranged  from  every  refinement,  was  greatly  enhanced  by  the 
fact  that  he  could  not  get  on  with  ordinary  men,  but  exhibited 
almost  to  the  last  a  practical  incapacity,  a  curious  inability  to 
do  the  sane  and  secure  thing.  As  Mr.  Wells  puts  it : — 
'  It  is  not  that  he  was  a  careless  man,  he  was  a  most  careful  one ; 


xxvi      THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

it  is  not  that  he  was  a  morally  lax  man,  he  was  almost  morbidly 
the  reverse.  Neither  was  he  morose  or  eccentric  in  his  motives 
or  bearing;  he  was  genial,  conversational,  and  well-meaning. 
But  he  had  some  sort  of  blindness  towards  his  fellow-men,  so  that 
he  never  entirely  grasped  the  spirit  of  everyday  life,  so  that  he, 
who  was  so  copiously  intelligent  in  the  things  of  the  study,  mis- 
understood, blundered,  was  nervously  diffident,  and  wilful  and 
spasmodic  in  common  affairs,  in  employment  and  buying  and 
selling,  and  the  normal  conflicts  of  intercourse.  He  did  not 
know  what  would  offend,  and  he  did  not  know  what  would  please. 
He  irritated  others  and  thwarted  himself.  He  had  no  social 


Does  not  Gissing  himself  sum  it  up  admirably,  upon  the 
lips  of  Mr.  Widdowson  in  The  Odd  Women  :  '  Life  has  always 
been  full  of  worrying  problems  for  me.  I  can't  take  things 
in  the  simple  way  that  comes  natural  to  other  men.'  '  Not 
as  other  men  are' :  more  intellectual  than  most,  fully  as 
responsive  to  kind  and  genial  instincts,  yet  bound  at  every 
turn  to  pinch  and  screw — an  involuntary  ascetic.  Such  is 
the  essential  burden  of  Gissing's  long-drawn  lament.  Only 
accidentally  can  it  be  described  as  his  mission  to  preach 
'  the  desolation  of  modern  life/  or  in  the  gracious  phrase  of 
De  Goncourt,Jbtiiller  les  entrailles  de  la  vie  Of  the  confident, 
self-supporting  realism  of  Esther  Waters,  for  instance,  how 
little  is  there  in  any  of  his  work,  even  in  that  most  gloomily 
photographic  portion  of  it  which  we  are  now  to  describe  ? 

During  the  next  four  years,  1889-1892,  Gissing  produced 
four  novels,  and  three  of  these  perhaps  are  his  best  efforts 
in  prose  fiction.  The  Nether  World  of  1889  is  certainly  in 
some  respects  his  strongest  work,  la  letra  con  sangre,  in  which 
the  ruddy  drops  of  anguish  remembered  in  a  state  of  com- 
parative tranquillity  are  most  powerfully  expressed.  The 
Emancipated,  of  1890,  is  with  equal  certainty,  a  rechauffe  and 
the  least  successful  of  various  attempts  to  give  utterance  to 
his  enthusiasm  for  the  valor  antica — 'the  glory  that  was 
Greece  and  the  randeur  that  was  Rome.'  New  Grub  Street, 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY         xxvii 

(1891)  is  the  most  constructive  and  perhaps  the  most  success- 
ful of  all  his  works ;  while  Born  in  Exile  (1892)  is  a  key-book 
as  regards  the  development  of  the  author's  character,  a  clavis 
of  primary  value  to  his  future  biographer,  whoever  he  may 
be.  The  Nether  World  contains  Gissing's  most  convincing 
indictment  of  Poverty ;  and  it  also  expresses  his  sense  of 
revolt  against  the  ugliness  and  cruelty  which  is  propagated 
like  a  foul  weed  by  the  barbarous  life  of  our  reeking  slums. 
Hunger  and  Want  show  Religion  and  Virtue  the  door  with 
scant  politeness  in  this  terrible  book.  The  material  had 
been  in  his  possession  for  some  time,  and  in  part  it  had  been 
used  before  in  earlier  work.  It  was  now  utilised  with  a 
masterly  hand,  and  the  result  goes  some  way,  perhaps,  to 
justify  the  well-meant  but  erratic  comparisons  that  have  been 
made  between  Gissing  and  such  writers  as  Zola,  Maupassant 
and  the  projector  of  the  Comedie  Humaine.  The  savage  luck 
which  dogs  Kirkwood  and  Jane,  and  the  worse  than  savage 
— the  inhuman — cruelty  of  Clem  Peckover,  who  has  been 
compared  to  the  Madame  Cibot  of  Balzac's  Le  Cousin  Pons, 
render  the  book  an  intensely  gloomy  one ;  it  ends  on  a  note 
of  poignant  misery,  which  gives  a  certain  colour  for  once  to 
the  oft-repeated  charge  of  morbidity  and  pessimism.  Gissing 
understood  the  theory  of  compensation,  but  was  unable  to 
exhibit  it  in  action.  He  elevates  the  cult  of  refinement  to 
such  a  pitch  that  the  consolations  of  temperament,  of  habit, 
and  of  humdrum  ideals  which  are  common  to  the  coarsest  of 
mankind,  appear  to  elude  his  observation.  He  does  not 
represent  men  as  worse  than  they  are ;  but  he  represents 
them  less  brave.  No  social  stratum  is  probably  quite  so 
dull  as  he  colours  it.  There  is  usually  a  streak  of  illusion  or 
a  flash  of  hope  somewhere  on  the  horizon.  Hence  a  some- 
what one-sided  view  of  life,  perfectly  true  as  representing 
the  grievance  of  the  poet  Cinna  in  the  hands  of  the  mob, 
but  too  severely  monochrome  for  a  serious  indictment  of  a 
huge  stratum  of  our  common  humanity.  As  in  Thyrza,  the 


xxviii    THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

sombreness  of  the  ground  generates  some  magnificent  pieces 
of  descriptive  writing. 

'  Hours  yet  before  the  fireworks  begin.  Never  mind  ;  here  by 
good  luck  we  find  seats  where  we  can  watch  the  throng  passing 
and  repassing.  It  is  a  great  review  of  the  people.  On  the  whole, 
how  respectable  they  are,  how  sober,  how  deadly  dull !  See  how 
worn-out  the  poor  girls  are  becoming,  how  they  gape,  what  listless 
eyes  most  of  them  have  !  The  stoop  in  the  shoulders  so  universal 
among  them  merely  means  over-toil  in  the  workroom.  Not  one  in  a 
thousand  shows  the  elements  of  taste  in  dress  ;  vulgarity  and  worse 
glares  in  all  but  every  costume.  Observe  the  middle-aged  women ; 
it  would  be  small  surprise  that  their  good  looks  had  vanished,  but 
whence  comes  it  they  are  animal,  repulsive,  absolutely  vicious  in 
ugliness  ?  Mark  the  men  in  their  turn ;  four  in  every  six  have 
visages  so  deformed  by  ill-health  that  they  excite  disgust ;  their 
hair  is  cut  down  to  within  half  an  inch  of  the  scalp  ;  their  legs  are 
twisted  out  of  shape  by  evil  conditions  of  life  from  birth  upwards. 
Whenever  a  youth  and  a  girl  come  along  arm-in-arm,  how  flag- 
rantly shows  the  man's  coarseness  !  They  are  pretty,  so  many  of 
these  girls,  delicate  of  feature,  graceful  did  but  their  slavery  allow 
them  natural  development ;  and  the  heart  sinks  as  one  sees  them 
side  by  side  with  the  men  who  are  to  be  their  husbands.  .  .  . 

On  the  terraces  dancing  has  commenced  ;  the  players  of  violins, 
concertinas,  and  penny  whistles  do  a  brisk  trade  among  the  groups 
eager  for  a  rough-and-tumble  valse ;  so  do  the  pickpockets. 
Vigorous  and  varied  is  the  jollity  that  occupies  the  external 
galleries,  filling  now  in  expectation  of  the  fireworks ;  indescrib- 
able the  mingled  tumult  that  roars  heavenwards.  Girls  linked 
by  the  half-dozen  arm-in-arm  leap  along  with  shrieks  like  grotesque 
maenads  ;  a  rougher  horseplay  finds  favour  among  the  youths,  occa- 
sionally leading  to  fisticuffs.  Thick  voices  bellow  in  fragmentary 
chorus ;  from  every  side  comes  the  yell,  the  cat-call,  the  ear- 
rending  whistle  ;  and  as  the  bass,  the  never-ceasing  accompaniment, 
sounds  the  myriad-footed  tramp,  tramp  along  the  wooden  flooring. 
A  fight,  a  scene  of  bestial  drunkenness,  a  tender  whispering  between 
two  lovers,  proceed  concurrently  in  a  space  of  five  square  yards. 
Above  them  glimmers  the  dawn  of  starlight.' — (pp.  109-11.) 

From  the  delineation  of  this  profoundly  depressing  milieu, 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY          xxix 

by  the  aid  of  which,  if  the  fate  of  London  and  Liverpool 
were  to-morrow  as  that  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  we 
should  be  able  to  reconstruct  the  gutters  of  our  Imperial 
cities  (little  changed  in  essentials  since  the  days  of  Domitian), 
Gissing  turned  his  sketch-book  to  the  scenery  of  rural 
England.  He  makes  no  attempt  at  the  rich  colouring  of 
Kingsley  or  Blackmore,  but,  as  page  after  page  of  Ryecrqfl 
testifies  twelve  years  later,  he  is  a  perfect  master  of  the 
aquarelle. 

'  The  distance  is  about  five  miles,  and,  until  Danbury  Hill  is 
reached,  the  countryside  has  no  point  of  interest  to  distinguish  it 
from  any  other  representative  bit  of  rural  Essex.  It  is  merely  one 
of  those  quiet  corners  of  flat,  homely  England,  where  man  and 
beast  seem  on  good  terms  with  each  other,  where  all  green  things 
grow  in  abundance,  where  from  of  old  tilth  and  pasture-land  are 
humbly  observant  of  seasons  and  alternations,  where  the  brown 
roads  are  familiar  only  with  the  tread  of  the  labourer,  with  the 
light  wheel  of  the  farmer's  gig,  or  the  rumbling  of  the  solid  wain. 
By  the  roadside  you  pass  occasionally  a  mantled  pool,  where 
perchance  ducks  or  geese  are  enjoying  themselves ;  and  at  times 
there  is  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  farmyard,  with  stacks  and  barns  and 
stables.  All  things  as  simple  as  could  be,  but  beautiful  on  this 
summer  afternoon,  and  priceless  when  one  has  come  forth  from 
the  streets  of  Clerkenwell. 

'  Danbury  Hill,  rising  thick-wooded  to  the  village  church,  which 
is  visible  for  miles  around,  with  stretches  of  heath  about  its  lower 
slopes,  with  its  far  prospects  over  the  sunny  country,  was  the  pleas- 
ant end  of  a  pleasant  drive.' — (The  Nether  World,  pp.  164-165.) 

The  first  part  of  this  description  is  quite  masterly — worthy, 
I  am  inclined  to  say,  of  Flaubert.  But  unless  you  are 
familiar  with  the  quiet,  undemonstrative  nature  of  the  scenery 
described,  you  can  hardly  estimate  the  perfect  justice  of  the 
sentiment  and  phrasing  with  which  Gissing  succeeds  in 
enveloping  it. 

Gissing  now  turned  to  the  submerged  tenth  of  literature, 
and  in  describing  it  he  managed  to  combine  a  problem  or 


xxx       THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

thesis  with  just  the  amount  of  characterisation  and  plotting 
sanctioned  by  the  novel  convention  of  the  day.  The  con- 
vention may  have  been  better  than  we  think,  for  New  Grub 
Street  is  certainly  its  author's  most  effective  work.  The 
characters  are  numerous,  actual,  and  alive.  The  plot  is 
moderately  good,  and  lingers  in  the  memory  with  some 
obstinacy.  The  problem  is  more  open  to  criticism,  and  it 
has  indeed  been  criticised  from  more  points  of  view  than 
one. 

'In  New  Grub  Street,'  says  one  of  his  critics,1  '  Mr.  Gissing  has 
endeavoured  to  depict  the  shady  side  of  literary  life  in  an  age 
dominated  by  the  commercial  spirit.  On  the  whole,  it  is  in  its 
realism  perhaps  the  least  convincing  of  his  novels,  whilst  being 
undeniably  the  most  depressing.  It  is  not  that  Gissing's  picture 
of  poverty  in  the  literary  profession  is  wanting  in  the  elements  of 
truth,  although  even  in  that  profession  there  is  even  more  eccen- 
tricity than  the  author  leads  us  to  suppose  in  the  social  position 
and  evil  plight  of  such  men  as  Edwin  Reardon  and  Harold  Biffen. 
But  the  contrast  between  Edwin  Reardon,  the  conscientious  artist 
loving  his  art  and  working  for  its  sake,  and  Jasper  Milvain,  the 
man  of  letters,  who  prospers  simply  because  he  is  also  a  man  of 
business,  which  is  the  main  feature  of  the  book  and  the  principal 
support  of  its  theme,  strikes  one  throughout  as  strained  to  the 
point  of  unreality.  In  the  first  place,  it  seems  almost  impossible 
that  a  man  of  Milvain' s  mind  and  instincts  should  have  deliberately 
chosen  literature  as  the  occupation  of  his  life ;  with  money  and 
success  as  his  only  aim  he  would  surely  have  become  a  stockbroker 
or  a  moneylender.  In  the  second  place,  Edwin  Reardon's  dire 
failure,  with  his  rapid  descent  into  extreme  poverty,  is  clearly 
traceable  not  so  much  to  a  truly  artistic  temperament  in  conflict 
with  the  commercial  spirit,  as  to  mental  and  moral  weakness,  which 
could  not  but  have  a  baneful  influence  upon  his  work.' 

This  criticism  does  not  seem  to  me  a  just  one  at  all,  and 

I  dissent  from  it  completely.     In  the  first  place,  the  book 

is  not  nearly  so  depressing  as  The  Nether  World,  and  is  much 

farther  removed   from   the   strain  of  French  and   Russian 

1  F.  Dolman  in  National  Review,  rol,  xxx.  j  cf.  ibid.,  vol.  xliv. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xxxi 

pessimism  which  had  begun  to  engage  the  author's  study 
when  he  was  writing  Thyrza.  There  are  dozens  of  examples 
to  prove  that  Milvain's  success  is  a  perfectly  normal  process, 
and  the  reason  for  his  selecting  the  journalistic  career  is  the 
obvious  one  that  he  has  no  money  to  begin  stock-broking, 
still  less  money-lending.  In  the  third  place,  the  mental  and 
moral  shortcomings  of  Reardon  are  by  no  means  dissembled 
by  the  author.  He  is,  as  the  careful  student  of  the  novels 
will  perceive,  a  greatly  strengthened  and  improved  rifaci- 
mento  of  Kingcote,  while  Amy  Reardon  is  a  better  observed 
Isabel,  regarded  from  a  slightly  different  point  of  view. 
Jasper  Milvain  is,  to  my  thinking,  a  perfectly  fair  portrait 
of  an  ambitious  publicist  or  journalist  of  the  day — destined 
by  determination,  skill,  energy,  and  social  ambition  to  be- 
come an  editor  of  a  successful  journal  or  review,  and  to  lead 
the  life  of  central  London.  Possessing  a  keen  and  active 
mind,  expression  on  paper  is  his  handle ;  he  has  no  love  of 
letters  as  letters  at  all.  But  his  outlook  upon  the  situation 
is  just  enough.  Reardon  has  barely  any  outlook  at  all.  He 
is  a  man  with  a  delicate  but  shallow  vein  of  literary  capacity, 
who  never  did  more  than  tremble  upon  the  verge  of  success, 
and  hardly,  if  at  all,  went  beyond  promise.  He  was  unlucky 
in  marrying  Amy,  a  rather  heartless  woman,  whose  ambition 
was  far  in  excess  of  her  insight,  for  economic  position 
Reardon  had  none.  He  writes  books  to  please  a  small 
group.  The  books  fail  to  please.  Jasper  in  the  main  is 
right — there  is  only  a  precarious  place  for  any  creative 
litterateur  between  the  genius  and  the  swarm  of  ephemera 
or  journalists.  A  man  writes  either  to  please  the  hour  or  to 
produce  something  to  last,  relatively  a  long  time,  several 
generations — what  we  call  '  permanent.'  The  intermediate 
position  is  necessarily  insecure.  It  is  not  really  wanted. 
What  is  lost  by  society  when  one  of  these  mediocre  master- 
pieces is  overlooked  ?  A  sensation,  a  single  ray  in  a  sunset, 
missed  by  a  small  literary  coterie  !  The  circle  is  perhaps 


xxxii     THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

eclectic.  It  may  seem  hard  that  good  work  is  overwhelmed 
in  the  cataract  of  production,  while  relatively  bad,  garish 
work  is  rewarded.  But  so  it  must  be.  '  The  growing 
flood  of  literature  swamps  every  thing  but  works  of  primary 
genius.'  Good  taste  is  valuable,  especially  when  it  takes 
the  form  of  good  criticism.  The  best  critics  of  contem- 
porary books  (and  these  are  by  no  means  identical  with  the 
best  critics  of  the  past  and  its  work)  are  those  who  settle 
intuitively  upon  the  writing  that  is  going  to  appeal  more 
largely  to  a  future  generation,  when  the  attraction  of  novelty 
and  topicality  has  subsided.  The  same  work  is  done  by  great 
men.  They  anticipate  lines  of  action;  philosophers  generally 
follow  (Machiavelli's  theories  the  practice  of  Louis  XL, 
Nietzsche's  that  of  Napoleon  i.).  The  critic  recognises  the 
tentative  steps  of  genius  in  letters.  The  work  of  fine 
delicacy  and  reserve,  the  work  that  follows,  lacking  the  real 
originality,  is  liable  to  neglect,  and  may  become  the  victim 
of  ill-luck,  unfair  influence,  or  other  extraneous  factors.  Yet 
on  the  whole,  so  numerous  are  the  publics  of  to-day,  there 
never,  perhaps,  was  a  time  when  supreme  genius  or  even 
supreme  talent  was  so  sure  of  recognition.  Those  who  rail 
against  these  conditions,  as  Gissing  seems  here  to  have  done, 
are  actuated  consciously  or  unconsciously  by  a  personal  or 
sectional  disappointment.  It  is  akin  to  the  crocodile  lament 
of  the  publisher  that  good  modern  literature  is  neglected  by 
the  public,  or  the  impressionist's  lament  about  the  great 
unpaid  greatness  of  the  great  unknown — the  exclusively 
literary  view  of  literary  rewards.  Literature  must  be 
governed  by  over-mastering  impulse  or  directed  at  profit. 

But  New  Grub  Street  is  rich  in  memorable  characters  and 
situations  to  an  extent  unusual  in  Gissing ;  Biffen  in  his 
garret — a  piece  of  genre  almost  worthy  of  Dickens ;  Reardon 
the  sterile  plotter,  listening  in  despair  to  the  neighbouring 
workhouse  clock  of  St.  Mary-le-bone ;  the  matutinal  interview 
between  Alfred  Yule  and  the  threadbare  surgeon,  a  vignette 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY         xxxiii 

worthy  of  Smollett.  Alfred  Yule,  the  worn-out  veteran, 
whose  literary  ideals  are  those  of  the  eighteenth  century,  is 
a  most  extraordinary  study  of  an  arriere — certainly  one  of 
the  most  crusted  and  individual  personalities  Gissing  ever 
portrayed.  He  never  wrote  with  such  a  virile  pen  :  phrase 
after  phrase  bites  and  snaps  with  a  singular  crispness  and 
energy ;  material  used  before  is  now  brought  to  a  finer 
literary  issue.  It  is  by  far  the  most  tenacious  of  Gissing's 
novels.  It  shows  that  on  the  more  conventional  lines  of 
fictitious  intrigue,  acting  as  cement,  and  in  the  interplay 
of  emphasised  characters,  Gissing  could,  if  he  liked,  excel. 
(It  recalls  Anatole  France's  Le  Lys  Rouge,  showing  that  he, 
too,  the  scholar  and  intellectual  par  excellence,  co:ild  an  he 
would  produce  patterns  in  plain  and  fancy  adultery  with 
the  best.)  Whelpdale's  adventures  in  Troy,  U.S.A.,  where 
he  lived  for  five  days  on  pea-nuts,  are  evidently  semi-auto- 
biographical. It  is  in  his  narrative  that  we  first  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  American  phrase  now  so  familiar  about 
literary  productions  going  off  like  hot  cakes.  The  reminis- 
cences of  Athens  are  typical  of  a  lifelong  obsession — to  find 
an  outlet  later  on  in  Veranilda,  On  literary  reclame,  he 
says  much  that  is  true — if  not  the  whole  truth,  in  the 
apophthegm  for  instance, '  You  have  to  become  famous  before 
you  can  secure  the  attention  which  would  give  fame.' 
Biffen,  it  is  true,  is  a  somewhat  fantastic  figure  of  an  idealist, 
but  Gissing  cherished  this  grotesque  exfoliation  from  a 
headline  by  Dickens — and  later  in  his  career  we  shall  find 
him  reproducing  one  of  Biffen's  ideals  with  a  singular 
fidelity. 

'  Picture  a  woman  of  middle  age,  wrapped  at  all  times  in  dirty 
rags  (not  to  be  called  clothing),  obese,  grimy,  with  dishevelled 
black  hair,  and  hands  so  scarred,  so  deformed  by  labour  and 
neglect,  as  to  be  scarcely  human.  She  had  the  darkest  and 
fiercest  eyes  I  ever  saw.  Between  her  and  her  mistress  went  on 
an  unceasing  quarrel ;  they  quarrelled  in  my  room,  in  the  corridor. 


xxxiv     THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

and,  as  I  knew  by  their  shrill  voices,  in  places  remote  ;  yet  I  am 
sure  they  did  not  dislike  each  other,  and  probably  neither  of  them 
ever  thought  of  parting.  Unexpectedly,  one  evening,  this  woman 
entered,  stood  by  the  bedside,  and  began  to  talk  with  such  fierce 
energy,  with  such  flashing  of  her  black  eyes,  and  such  distortion 
of  her  features,  that  I  could  only  suppose  that  she  was  attacking 
me  for  the  trouble  I  caused  her.  A  minute  or  two  passed  before  I 
could  even  hit  the  drift  of  her  furious  speech  ;  she  was  always  the 
most  difficult  of  the  natives  to  understand,  and  in  rage  she  became 
quite  unintelligible.  Little  by  little,  by  dint  of  questioning,  I  got 
at  what  she  meant.  There  had  been  guai,  worse  than  usual ;  the 
mistress  had  reviled  her  unendurably  for  some  fault  or  other,  and 
was  it  not  hard  that  she  should  be  used  like  this  after  having 
tanto,  tanto  lavorato  !  In  fact,  she  was  appealing  for  my  sympathy, 
not  abusing  me  at  all.  When  she  went  on  to  say  that  she  was 
alone  in  the  world,  that  all  her  kith  and  kin  were  freddi  morti 
(stone  dead),  a  pathos  in  her  aspect  and  her  words  took  hold  upon 
me ;  it  was  much  as  if  some  heavy-laden  beast  of  burden  had 
suddenly  found  tongue  and  protested  in  the  rude  beginnings  of 
articulate  utterance  against  its  hard  lot.  If  only  we  could  have 
learnt  in  intimate  detail  the  life  of  this  domestic  serf ! J  How 
interesting  and  how  sordidly  picturesque  against  the  background 
of  romantic  landscape,  of  scenic  history  !  I  looked  long  into  her 
sallow,  wrinkled  face,  trying  to  imagine  the  thoughts  that  ruled 
its  expression.  In  some  measure  my  efforts  at  kindly  speech 
succeeded,  and  her  "  Ah,  Cristo  ! "  as  she  turned  to  go  away,  was 
not  without  a  touch  of  solace. ' 

In  18.Q2  Gissing  was  already  beginning  to  try  and  discard 
his  down  look,  his  lugubrious  self-pity,  his  lamentable 
cadence.  He  found  some  alleviation  from  self-torment  in 
David  Copperfield,  and  he  determined  to  borrow  a  feather 
from  '  the  master's  '  pinion — in  other  words,  to  place  an  auto- 
biographical novel  to  his  credit.  The  result  was  Born  in  Exile 
(1892),  one  of  the  last  of  the  three-volume  novels, — by  no 
means  one  of  the  worst.  A  Hedonist  of  academic  type,  repelled 

1  Here  is  a  more  fully  prepared  expression  of  the  very  essence  of  Biffen'a 
artistic  ideal. — By  the  Ionian  Sea,  chap.  x. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY          xxxv 

by  a  vulgar  intonation,  Gissing  himself  is  manifestly  the  man 
in  exile.  Travel,  fair  women  and  college  life,  the  Savile  club, 
and  Great  Malvern  or  the  Cornish  coast,  music  in  Paris  or 
Vienna — this  of  course  was  the  natural  milieu  for  such  a 
man.  Instead  of  which  our  poor  scholar  (with  Homer  and 
Shakespeare  and  Pausanias  piled  upon  his  one  small  deal  table) 
had  to  encounter  the  life  of  the  shabby  recluse  in  London 
lodgings — synonymous  for  him,  as  passage  after  passage  in 
his  books  recounts,  with  incompetence  and  vulgarity  in 
every  form,  at  best  '  an  ailing  lachrymose  slut  incapable  of 
effort,'  more  often  sheer  foulness  and  dishonesty,  '  by  lying, 
slandering,  quarrelling,  by  drunkenness,  by  brutal  vice,  by 
all  abominations  that  distinguish  the  lodging-letter  of  the 
metropolis.'  No  book  exhibits  more  naively  the  extravagant 
value  which  Gissing  put  upon  the  mere  externals  of  refine- 
ment. The  following  scathing  vignette  of  his  unrefined 
younger  brother  by  the  hero,  Godfrey  Peak,  shows  the 
ferocity  with  which  this  feeling  could  manifest  itself  against 
a  human  being  who  lacked  the  elements  of  scholastic  learn- 
ing (the  brother  in  question  had  failed  to  give  the  date  of  the 
Norman  Conquest) : — 

'  He  saw  much  company  and  all  of  low  intellectual  order ;  he 
had  purchased  a  bicycle  and  regarded  it  as  a  source  of  distinction, 
or  means  of  displaying  himself  before  shopkeepers'  daughters  ;  he 
believed  himself  a  moderate  tenor  and  sang  verses  of  sentimental 
imbecility  ;  he  took  in  several  weekly  papers  of  unpromising  title 
for  the  chief  purpose  of  deciphering  cryptograms,  in  which  pursuit 
he  had  singular  success.  Add  to  these  characteristics  a  penchant 
for  cheap  jewellery,  and  Oliver  Peak  stands  confessed.' 

The  story  of  the  book  is  revealed  in  Peak's  laconic  ambition, 
r  A  plebeian,  I  aim  at  marrying  a  lady.'  It  is  a  little  curious, 
some  may  think,  that  this  motive  so  skilfully  used  by  so 
many  novelists  to  whose  work  Gissing's  has  affinity,  from 
Rousseau  and  Stendhal  (Rouge  el  Noire)  to  Cherbuliez  (Secret 
du  Precepteur)  and  Bourget  (Le  Disciple),  had  not  already 


xxxvi     THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

attracted  him,  but  the  explanation  is  perhaps  in  part  indi- 
cated in  a  finely  written  story  towards  the  close  of  this  present 
volume.1  The  white,  maidenish  and  silk-haired  fairness  of 
Sidwell,  and  Peak's  irresistible  passion  for  the  type  of  beauty 
suggested,  is  revealed  to  us  with  all  Gissing's  wonderful  skill 
in  shadowing  forth  feminine  types  of  lovelihood.  Suggestive 
too  of  his  oncoming  passion  for  Devonshire  and  Western 
England  are  strains  of  exquisite  landscape  music  scattered  at 
random  through  these  pages.  More  significant  still,  however, 
is  the  developing  faculty  for  personal  satire,  pointing  to  a 
vastly  riper  human  experience.  Peak  was  uncertain,  says 
the  author,  with  that  faint  ironical  touch  which  became 
almost  habitual  to  him,  '  as  to  the  limits  of  modern 
latitudinarianism  until  he  met  Chilvers/  the  sleek,  clerical 
advocate  of  '  Less  St.  Paul  and  more  Darwin,  less  of  Luther 
and  more  of  Herbert  Spencer ' : — 

'The  discovery  of  such  fantastic  liberality  in  a  man  whom  he 
could  not  but  dislike  and  contemn  gave  him  no  pleasure,  but  at 
least  it  disposed  him  to  amusement  rather  than  antagonism. 
Chilvers's  pronunciation  and  phraseology  were  distinguished  by 
such  original  affectation  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  find  enter- 
tainment in  listening  to  him.  Though  his  voice  was  naturally 
shrill  and  piping,  he  managed  to  speak  in  head  notes  which  had  a 
ring  of  robust  utterance.  The  sound  of  his  words  was  intended  to 
correspond  with  their  virile  warmth  of  meaning.  In  the  same  way 
he  had  cultivated  a  habit  of  the  muscles  which  conveyed  an  impres- 
sion that  he  was  devoted  to  athletic  sports.  His  arms  occasionally 
swung  as  if  brandishing  dumb-bells,  his  chest  now  and  then 
spread  itself  to  the  uttermost,  and  his  head  was  often  thrown  back 
in  an  attitude  suggesting  self-defence.' 

Of  Gissing's  first  year  or  so  at  Owens,  after  leaving  Lindow 
Grove  School  at  Alderley,2  we  get  a  few  hints  in  these  pages. 
Like  his  'lonely  cerebrate'  hero,  Gissing  himself,  at  school  and 

1  See  page  260. 

2  With  an  exhibition  gained  when  he  was  not  yet  fifteen. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY       xxxvii 

college,  '  worked  insanely.'  Walked  much  alone,  shunned 
companionship  rather  than  sought  it,  worked  as  he  walked, 
and  was  marked  down  as  a  'pot-hunter.'  He  'worked  while 
he  ate,  he  cut  down  his  sleep,  and  for  him  the  penalty  came, 
not  in  a  palpable,  definable  illness,  but  in  an  abrupt,  incon- 
gruous reaction  and  collapse.'  With  rage  he  looked  back  on 
these  insensate  years  of  study  which  had  weakened  him 
just  when  he  should  have  been  carefully  fortifying  his  con 
stitution. 

The  year  of  this  autobiographical  record 1  marked  the 
commencement  of  Gissing's  reclamation  from  that  worst 
form  of  literary  slavery — the  chain-gang.  For  he  had 
been  virtually  chained  to  the  desk,  perpetually  working, 
imprisoned  in  a  London  lodging,  owing  to  the  literal  lack 
of  the  means  of  locomotion.2  His  most  strenuous  work, 
wrung  from  him  in  dismal  darkness  and  wrestling  of  spirit, 
was  now  achieved.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  both  ungrateful 
and  unfair  to  say,  as  has  frequently  been  done,  that  his 
subsequent  work  was  consistently  inferior.  In  his  earlier 
years,  like  Reardon,  he  had  destroyed  whole  books — books 
he  had  to  sit  down  to  when  his  imagination  was  tired  and 
his  fancy  suffering  from  deadly  fatigue.  His  corrections 
in  the  days  of  New  Grub  Street  provoked  not  infrequent, 
though  anxiously  deprecated,  remonstrance  from  his  pub- 
lisher's reader.  Now  he  wrote  with  more  assurance  and 
less  exhaustive  care,  but  also  with  a  perfected  experience. 

i  Followed  in  1897  by  The  Whirlpool  (see  p.  xvi),  and  in  1899  and  1903  by 
two  books  containing  a  like  infusion  of  autobiographical  experience,  The 
Crown  of  Life,  technically  admirable  in  chosen  passages,  but  sadly  lacking 
in  the  freshness  of  first-hand,  and  The  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft, 
one  of  the  lightest  and  ripest  of  all  his  productions. 

'  'I  hardly  knew  what  it  was  to  travel  by  omnibus.  I  have  walked 
London  streets  for  twelve  and  fifteen  hours  together  without  even  a  thought 
of  saving  my  legs  or  my  time,  by  paying  for  waftage.  Being  poor  as  poor 
can  be,  there  were  certain  things  I  had  to  renounce,  and  this  was  one  of 
them.' — Ryecroft.  For  earlier  scenes  see  Monthly  Review,  xvi.,  and  Oweni 
College  Union  May.,  Jan.  1904,  pp.  80-81. 


xxxviii  THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

A  portion  of  his  material,  it  is  true,  had  been  fairly 
used  up,  and  he  had  henceforth  to  turn  to  analyse  the 
sufferings  of  well-to-do  lower  middle-class  families,  people 
who  had  '  neither  inherited  refinement  nor  acquired  it, 
neither  proletarian  nor  gentlefolk,  consumed  with  a  disease 
of  vulgar  pretentiousness,  inflated  with  the  miasma  of  demo- 
cracy.' Of  these  classes  it  is  possible  that  he  knew  less, 
and  consequently  lacked  the  sureness  of  touch  and  the 
fresh  draughtsmanship  which  comes  from  ample  knowledge, 
and  that  he  had,  consequently,  to  have  increasing  resort  to 
books  and  to  invention,  to  hypothesis  and  theory.1  On  the 
other  hand,  his  power  of  satirical  writing  was  continually 
expanding  and  developing,  and  some  of  his  very  best  prose 
is  contained  in  four  of  these  later  books :  In  the  Year  of 
Jubilee  (1894),  Charles  Dickens  (1898),  By  the  Ionian  Sea 
(1901),  and  The  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft  (1903); 
not  far  below  any  of  which  must  be  rated  four  others,  The 
Odd  Women  (1893),  Eve's  Ransom  (1895),  The  Whirlpool 
"(1897),  and  Will  Warburton  (1905),  to  which  may  be  added 
the  two  collections  of  short  stories. 

Few,  if  any,  of  Gissing's  books  exhibit  more  mental  vigour 
than  In  the  Year  of  Jubilee.  This  is  shown  less,  it  may  be, 
in  his  attempted  solution  of  the  marriage  problem  (is  marriage 
a  failure  ?)  by  means  of  the  suggestion  that  middle  class 
married  people  should  imitate  the  rich  and  see  as  little  of 
each  other  as  possible,  than  in  the  terse  and  amusing  charac- 

i  'He  knew  the  narrowly  religious,  the  mental  barrenness  of  the  poor 
dissenters,  the  people  of  the  slums  that  he  observed  so  carefully,  and  many 
of  those  on  the  borders  of  the  Bohemia  of  which  he  at  least  was  an  initiate, 
and  he  was  soaked  and  stained,  as  he  might  himself  have  said,  with  the  dull 
drabs  of  the  lower  middle  class  that  he  hated.  But  of  those  above  he  knew 
little.  .  .  .  He  did  not  know  the  upper  middle  classes,  which  are  as  difficult 
every  whit  as  those  beneath  them,  and  take  as  much  time  and  labour  and 
experience  and  observation  to  learn.'— 'The  Exile  of  George  Gissing,'  Albany, 
Christmas  1904.  In  later  life  he  lost  sympathy  with  the  'netherworld.'  Asked 
to  write  a  magazine  article  on  a  typical  'workman's  budget,'  he  wrote  that 
he  no  longer  took  an  interest  in  the  'condition  of  the  poor  question.' 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY         xxxix 

terisations  and  the  powerfully  thought-out  descriptions. 
The  precision  which  his  pen  had  acquired  is  well  illustrated 
by  the  following  description,  not  unworthy  of  Thomas  Hardy, 
of  a  new  neighbourhood. 

'Great  elms,  the  pride  of  generations  passed  away,  fell  before 
the  speculative  axe,  or  were  left  standing  in  mournful  isolation  to 
please  a  speculative  architect ;  bits  of  wayside  hedge  still  shivered 
in  fog  and  wind,  amid  hoardings  variegated  with  placards  and 
scaffoldings  black  against  the  sky.  The  very  earth  had  lost  its 
wholesome  odour  ;  trampled  into  mire,  fouled  with  builders'  refuse 
and  the  noisome  drift  from  adjacent  streets,  it  sent  forth,  under 
the  sooty  rain,  a  smell  of  corruption,  of  all  the  town's  unclean  liness. 
On  this  rising  locality  had  been  bestowed  the  title  of  "Park." 
Mrs.  Morgan  was  decided  in  her  choice  of  a  dwelling  here  by  the 
euphonious  address,  Merton  Avenue,  Something-or-othej  Park.' 

Zola's  wonderful  skill  in  the  animation  of  crowds  has  often 
been  commented  upon,  but  it  is  more  than  doubtful  if  he 
ever  achieved  anything  superior  to  Gissing's  marvellous 
incarnation  of  the  jubilee  night  mob  in  chapter  seven.  More 
formidable,  as  illustrating  the  venom  which  the  author's 
whole  nature  had  secreted  against  a  perfectly  recognisable 
type  of  modern  woman,  is  the  acrid  description  of  Ada, 
Beatrice,  and  Fanny  French. 

'They  spoke  a  peculiar  tongue,  the  product  of  sham  education 
and  a  mock  refinement  grafted  upon  a  stock  of  robust  vulgarity. 
One  and  all  would  have  been  moved  to  indignant  surprise  if 
accused  of  ignorance  or  defective  breeding.  Ada  had  frequented 
an  "  establishment  for  young  ladies  "  up  to  the  close  of  her  seven- 
teenth year :  the  other  two  had  pursued  culture  at  a  still  more 
pretentious  institute  until  they  were  eighteen.  All  could  "  play 
the  piano  "  ;  all  declared — and  believed — that  they  "  knew  French." 
Beatrice  had  "done"  Political  Economy;  Fanny  had  "been 
through "  Inorganic  Chemistry  and  Botany.  The  truth  was,  of 
course,  that  their  minds,  characters,  propensities,  had  remained 
absolutely  proof  against  such  educational  influence  as  had  been 
brought  to  bear  upon  them.  That  they  used  a  finer  accent  than 


xl          THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

their  servants,  signified  only  that  they  had  grown  up  amid  falsities, 
and  were  enabled,  by  the  help  of  money,  to  dwell  above-stairs, 
nstead  of  with  their  spiritual  kindred  below.' 

The  evils  of  indiscriminate  education  and  the  follies  of 
our  grotesque  examination  system  were  one  of  Gissing's 
favourite  topics  of  denunciation  in  later  years,  as  evidenced 
;n  this  characteristic  passage  in  his  later  manner  in  this  same 
book : — 

'She  talked  only  of  the  "exam,"  of  her  chances  in  this  or  that 
"paper,"  of  the  likelihood  that  this  or  that  question  would  be  "set." 
Her  brain  was  becoming  a  mere  receptacle  for  dates  and  definitions, 
vocabularies  and  rules  syntactic,  for  thrice-boiled  essence  of  history, 
ragged  scraps  of  science,  quotations  at  fifth  hand,  and  all  the 
heterogeneous  rubbish  of  a  "  crammer's"  shop.  When  away  from 
her  books,  she  carried  scraps  of  paper,  with  jottings  to  be  committed 
to  memory.  Beside  her  plate  at  meals  lay  formulae  and  tabulations. 
She  went  to  bed  with  a  manual,  and  got  up  with  a  compendium." 

The  conclusion  of  this  book  and  its  predecessor,  The  Odd 
Women,1  marks  the  conclusion  of  these  elaborated  problem 
studies.  The  inferno  of  London  poverty,  social  analysis  and 
autobiographical  reminiscence,  had  now  alike  been  pretty 
extensively  drawn  upon  by  Gissing.  With  different  degrees 
of  success  he  had  succeeded  in  providing  every  one  of  his 

1  The  Odd  Women  (1893,  new  edition,  1894)  is  a  rather  sordid  and  depressing 
survey  of  the  life-histories  of  certain  orphaned  daughters  of  a  typical  Gissing 
doctor — grave,  benign,  amiably  diffident,  terribly  afraid  of  life.  '  From  the 
contact  of  coarse  actualities  his  nature  shrank.'  After  his  death  one 
daughter,  a  fancy-goods  shop  assistant  (no  wages),  is  carried  off  by  con- 
sumption ;  a  second  drowns  herself  in  a  bath  at  a  charitable  institution ; 
another  takes  to  drink ;  and  the  portraits  of  the  survivors,  their  petty, 
incurable  maladies,  their  utter  uselessness,  their  round  shoulders  and  '  very 
short  legs, '  pimples,  and  scraggy  necks — are  as  implacable  and  unsparing  as  a 
Maupassant  could  wish.  From  the  deplorable  insight  with  which  he  describes 
the  nerveless,  underfed,  compulsory  optimism  of  these  poor  in  spirit  and 
poor  in  hope  Gissing  might  almost  have  been  an  '  odd  woman '  himself.  In 
this  book  and  The  Paying  Guest  (1895)  he  seemed  to  take  a  savage  delight 
in  depicting  the  small,  stiff,  isolated,  costly,  unsatisfied  pretentiousness 
and  plentiful  lack  of  imagination  which  cripples  suburbia  so  cruelly. — See 
Saturday  Review,  13  Apr.  1896 ;  and  see  also  ib.,  19  Jan.  1895, 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xli 

theses  with  something  in  the  nature  of  a  jack-in-the-box 
plot  which  the  public  loved  and  he  despised.  There  re- 
mained to  him  three  alternatives  :  to  experiment  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  novel ;  to  essay  a  lighter  vein  of  fiction ;  or 
thirdly,  to  i*epeat  himself  and  refashion  old  material  within 
its  limits.  Necessity  left  him  very  little  option.  He 
adopted  all  three  alternatives.  His  best  success  in  the 
third  department  was  achieved  in  Eve's  Ransom  (1895). 
Burrowing  back  into  a  projection  of  himself  in  relation 
with  a  not  impossible  she,  Gissing  here  creates  a  false, 
fair,  and  fleeting  beauty  of  a  very  palpable  charm.  A  grow- 
ing sense  of  her  power  to  fascinate  steadily  raises  Eve's 
standard  of  the  minimum  of  luxury  to  which  she  is  entitled. 
And  in  the  course  of  this  evolution,  in  the  vain  attempt  to 
win  beauty  by  gratitude  and  humility,  the  timid  Hilliard, 
who  seeks  to  propitiate  his  charmer  by  ransoming  her  from  a 
base  liaison  and  supporting  her  in  luxury  for  a  season  in 
Paris,  is  thrown  off  like  an  old  glove  when  a  richer  parti 
declares  himself.  The  subtlety  of  the  portraiture  and  the 
economy  of  the  author's  sympathy  for  his  hero  impart  a 
subacid  flavour  of  peculiar  delicacy  to  the  book,  which  would 
occupy  a  high  place  in  the  repertoire  of  any  lesser  artist.  It 
well  exhibits  the  conflict  between  an  exaggerated  contempt 
for,  and  an  extreme  susceptibility  to,  the  charm  of  women 
which  has  cried  havoc  and  let  loose  the  dogs  of  strife  upon 
so  many  able  men.  In  The  Whirlpool  of  1897,  in  which  he 
shows  us  a  number  of  human  floats  spinning  round  the  vortex 
of  social  London,1  Gissing  brings  a  melodramatic  plot  of  a 

1  The  whirlpool  in  which  people  just  nod  or  shout  to  each  other  as  they 
spin  round  and  round.  The  heroine  tries  to  escape,  but  is  drawn  back  again 
and  again,  and  nearly  submerges  her  whole  environment  by  her  wild  clutches. 
Satire  is  lavished  upon  misdirected  education  (28),  the  sluttishness  of  London 
landladies,  self -adoring  Art  on  a  pedestal  (256),  the  delegation  of  children  to 
underlings,  sham  religiosity  (229),  the  pampered  conscience  of  a  diffident 
•tudent,  and  the  mensonye  of  modern  woman  (300),  typified  by  the  ruddled 
cast-off  of  Redgrave,  who  plays  first,  in  her  shrivelled  paint,  as  procuress, 
and  then,  in  her  naked  hideousness,  as  blackmailer. 


xlii        THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

kind  disused  since  the  days  of  Demos  to  bear  upon  the 
exhausting  lives  and  illusive  pleasures  of  the  rich  and 
cultured  middle  class.  There  is  some  admirable  writing 
in  the  book,  and  symptoms  of  a  change  of  tone  (the  old 
inclination  to  whine,  for  instance,  is  scarcely  perceptible) 
suggestive  of  a  new  era  in  the  work  of  the  novelist — 
relatively  mature  in  many  respects  as  he  now  manifestly 
was.  Further  progress  in  one  of  two  directions  seemed 
indicated :  the  first  leading  towards  the  career  of  a  successful 
society  novelist  fof  circulating  fame,  spirally  crescent,'  the 
second  towards  the  frame  of  mind  that  created  Ryecroft. 
The  second  fortunately  prevailed.  In  the  meantime,  in 
accordance  with  a  supreme  law  of  his  being,  his  spirit  craved 
that  refreshment  which  Gissing  found  in  revisiting  Italy. 
'  I  want,'  he  cried,  '  to  see  the  ruins  of  Rome :  I  want  to  see 
the  Tiber,  the  Clitumnus,  the  Aufidus,  the  Alban  Hills, 
Lake  Trasimenus !  It  is  strange  how  these  old  times  have 
taken  hold  of  me.  The  mere  names  in  Roman  history  make 
my  blood  warm.'  Of  him  the  saying  of  Michelet  was  per- 
petually true:  'J'ai  passe  a  cote  du  monde,  et  j'ai  pris 
1'histoire  pour  la  vie.'  His  guide-books  in  Italy,  through 
which  he  journeyed  in  1897  (en  prince  as  compared  with  his 
former  visit,  now  that  his  revenue  had  risen  steadily  to 
between  three  and  four  hundred  a  year),  were  Gibbon,  his 
semper  eadem,  Lenormant  (la  Grande-Grece),  and  Cassiodorus, 
of  whose  epistles,  the  foundation  of  the  material  of  Veranilda, 
he  now  began  to  make  a  special  study.  The  dirt,  the  poverty, 
the  rancid  oil,  and  the  inequable  climate  of  Calabria  must 
have  been  a  trial  and  something  of  a  disappointment  to  him. 
But  physical  discomfort  and  even  sickness  was  whelmed  by 
the  old  and  overmastering  enthusiasm,  which  combined  with 
his  hatred  of  modernity  and  consumed  Gissing  as  by  fire. 
The  sensuous  and  the  emotional  sides  of  his  experience 
are  blended  with  the  most  subtle  artistry  in  his  By  the 
Ionian  Sea,  a  short  volume  of  impressions,  unsurpassable  in 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xliii 

its  kind,  from  which  we  cannot  refrain  two  characteristic 
extracts : — 

'  At  Cotrone  the  tone  of  the  dining-room  was  decidedly  morose. 
One  man — he  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  clerk — came  only  to  quarrel. 
I  am  convinced  that  he  ordered  things  which  he  knew  that  the 
people  could  not  cook,  just  for  the  sake  of  reviling  their  handiwork 
when  it  was  presented.  Therewith  he  spent  incredibly  small  sums; 
after  growling  and  remonstrating  and  eating  for  more  than  an 
hour,  his  bill  would  amount  to  seventy  or  eighty  centesimi,  wine 
included.  Every  day  he  threatened  to  withdraw  his  custom  ;  every 
day  he  sent  for  the  landlady,  pointed  out  to  her  how  vilely  he  was 
treated,  and  asked  how  she  could  expect  him  to  recommend  the 
Concordia  to  his  acquaintances.  On  one  occasion  I  saw  him  push 
away  a  plate  of  something,  plant  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  hide 
his  face  in  his  hands ;  thus  he  sat  for  ten  minutes,  an  image  of 
indignant  misery,  and  when  at  length  his  countenance  was  again 
visible,  it  showed  traces  of  tears.' — (pp.  102-3.) 

The  unconscious  paganism  that  lingered  in  tradition,  the 
half-obscured  names  of  the  sites  celebrated  in  classic  story, 
and  the  spectacle  of  the  white  oxen  drawing  the  rustic  carts 
of  Virgil's  time — these  tilings  roused  in  him  such  an  echo  as 
Chevy  Chase  roused  in  the  noble  Sidney,  and  made  him  shout 
with  joy.  A  pensive  vein  of  contemporary  reflection  enriches 
the  book  with  passages  such  as  this : — 

*  All  the  faults  of  the  Italian  people  are  whelmed  in  forgiveness 
as  soon  as  their  music  sounds  under  the  Italian  sky.  One 
remembers  all  they  have  suffered,  all  they  have  achieved  in  spite 
of  wrong.  Brute  races  have  flung  themselves,  one  after  another, 
upon  this  sweet  and  glorious  land  ;  conquest  and  slavery,  from  age 
to  age,  have  been  the  people's  lot.  Tread  where  one  will,  the  soil 
has  been  drenched  with  blood.  An  immemorial  woe  sounds  even 
through  the  lilting  notes  of  Italian  gaiety.  It  is  a  country,  wearied 
and  regretful,  looking  ever  backward  to  the  things  of  old.' — (p.  130.) 

The  Ionian  Sea  did  not  make  its  appearance  until  1901, 
but  while  he  was  actually  in  Italy,  at  Siena,  he  wrote 


xliv       THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

the  greater  part  of  one  of  his  very  finest  performances,  the 
study  of  Charles  Dickens,  of  which  he  corrected  the  proofs 
'  at  a  little  town  in  Calabria.'  It  is  an  insufficient  tribute  to 
Gissing  to  say  that  his  study  of  Dickens  is  by  far  the  best 
extant.  I  have  even  heard  it  maintained  that  it  is  better 
in  its  way  than  any  single  volume  in  the  '  Man  of  Letters ' ; 
and  Mr.  Chesterton,  who  speaks  from  ample  knowledge  on 
this  point,  speaks  of  the  best  of  all  Dickens's  critics,  '  a  man 
of  genius,  Mr.  George  Gissing.'  While  fully  and  frankly 
recognising  the  master's  defects  in  view  of  the  artistic 
conscience  of  a  later  generation,  the  writer  recognises  to 
the  full  those  transcendent  qualities  which  place  him  next 
to  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  the  second  greatest  figure  in  a  century 
of  great  fiction.  In  defiance  of  the  terrible,  and  to  some 
critics  damning,  fact  that  Dickens  entirely  changed  the  plan 
of  Martin  Chuzzlewit  in  deference  to  the  popular  criticism 
expressed  by  the  sudden  fall  in  the  circulation  of  that  serial, 
he  shows  in  what  a  fundamental  sense  the  author  was  'a 
literary  artist  if  ever  there  was  one,'  and  he  triumphantly 
refutes  the  rash  daub  of  unapplied  criticism  represented  by 
the  parrot  cry  of  '  caricature '  as  levelled  against  Dickens's 
humorous  portraits.  Among  the  many  notable  features  of 
this  veritable  chef-d'oeuvre  of  under  250  pages  is  the  sense 
it  conveys  of  the  superb  gusto  of  Dickens's  actual  living 
and  breathing  and  being,  the  vindication  achieved  of  two 
ordinarily  rather  maligned  novels,  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop 
and  Little  Dorrit,  and  the  insight  shown  into  Dickens's 
portraiture  of  women,  more  particularly  those  of  the  shrill- 
voiced  and  nagging  or  whining  variety,  the  '  better  halves ' 
of  Weller,  Varden,  Snagsby  and  Joe  Gargery,  not  to  speak 
of  the  Miggs,  the  Gummidge,  and  the  M'Stinger.  Like 
Mr.  Swinburne  and  other  true  men,  he  regards  Mrs.  Gamp 
as  representing  the  quintessence  of  literary  art  wielded  by 
genius.  Try  (he  urges  with  a  fine  curiosity)  '  to  imagine 
Sarah  Gamp  as  a  young  girl ' !  But  it  is  unfair  to  separate  a 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xlv 

phrase  from  a  context  in  which  every  syllable  is  precious, 
reasonable,  thrice  distilled  and  sweet  to  the  palate  as  Hybla 
honey.1 

Henceforth  Gissing  spent  an  increasing  portion  of  his 
time  abroad,  and  it  was  from  St.  Honore  en  Morvan,  for 
instance,  that  he  dated  the  preface  of  Our  Friend  the  Charlatan 
in  1901.  As  with  Denzil  Quarrier  (1892)  and  The  Town 
Traveller  (1898)  this  was  one  of  the  books  which  Gissing 
sometimes  went  the  length  of  asking  the  admirers  of  his 
earlier  romances  'not  to  read.'  With  its  prefatory  note, 
indeed,  its  cheap  illustrations,  and  its  rather  mechanical 
intrigue,  it  seems  as  far  removed  from  such  a  book  as  A  Life's 
Morning  as  it  is  possible  for  a  novel  by  the  same  author 
to  be.  It  was  in  the  South  of  France,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Biarritz,  amid  scenes  such  as  that  described  in  the  thirty- 
seventh  chapter  of  Will  Warburton,  or  still  further  south,  that 
he  wrote  the  greater  part  of  his  last  three  books,  the  novel 
just  mentioned,  which  is  probably  his  best  essay  in  the 
lighter  ironical  vein  to  which  his  later  years  inclined,2 
Feranilda,  a  .romance  of  the  time  of  Theodoric  the  Goth, 
written  in  solemn  fulfilment  of  a  vow  of  his  youth,  and 
The  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Hyecroft,  which  to  my  mind 
remains  a  legacy  for  Time  to  take  account  of  as  the  faithful 
tribute  of  one  of  the  truest  artists  of  the  generation  he 
served. 


1  A  revised  edition  (the  date  of  Dickens'*  birth  is  wrongly  given  in  the  first) 
was  issued  in  1902,  with  topographical  illustrations  by  F.  G.  Kitton.  Gissing's 
introduction  to  Nickleby  for  the  Rochester  edition  appeared  in  1900,  and  his 
abridgement  of  Forster's  Life  (an  excellent  piece  of  work)  in  1903  [1902]. 
The  first  collection  of  short  stories,  twenty-nine  in  number,  entitled  Human 
Odds  and  Ends,  was  published  in  1898.  It  is  justly  described  by  the  writer 
of  the  most  interesting  '  Recollections  of  George  Gissing '  in  the  Gentleman' 't 
Magazine,  February  1906,  as  'that  very  remarkable  collection.' 

3  It  also  contains  one  of  the  most  beautiful  descriptions  ever  penned  of  the 
visit  of  a  tired  town-dweller  to  a  modest  rural  home,  with  all  its  suggestion 
of  trim  gardening,  fresh  country  scents,  indigenous  food,  and  homely  sim- 
plicity.— Will  Warburton,  chap.  ix. 


xlvi       THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

In  Veranilda  (1904)  are  combined  conscientious  workman- 
ship, a  pure  style  of  finest  quality,  and  archaeology,  for  all  I 
know  to  the  contrary,  worthy  of  Becker  or  Boni.  Sir  Walter 
himself  could  never  in  reason  have  dared  to  aspire  to  such  a 
fortunate  conjuncture  of  talent,  grace,  and  historic  accuracy. 
He  possessed  only  that  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
that  moulding  humour  and  quick  sense  of  dialogue,  thai 
live,  human,  and  local  interest  in  matters  antiquarian,  that 
statesmanlike  insight  into  the  pith  and  marrow  of  the 
historic  past,  which  makes  one  of  Scott's  historical  novels 
what  it  is — the  envy  of  artists,  the  delight  of  young  and  old, 
the  despair  of  formal  historians.  Veranilda  is  without  a 
doubt  a  splendid  piece  of  work ;  Gissing  wrote  it  with  every 
bit  of  the  care  that  his  old  friend  Biffen  expended  upon 
Mr.  Bailey,  grocer.  He  worked  slowly,  patiently,  affection- 
ately, scrupulously.  Each  sentence  was  as  good  as  he  could 
make  it,  harmonious  to  the  ear,  with  words  of  precious 
meaning  skilfully  set ;  and  he  believed  in  it  with  the  illusion 
so  indispensable  to  an  artist's  wellbeing  and  continuance  in 
good  work.  It  represented  for  him  what  Salammbo  did  to 
Flaubert.  But  he  could  not  allow  himself  six  years  to  write 
a  book  as  Flaubert  did.  Salammbo,  after  all,  was  a  magni- 
ficent failure,  and  Veranilda, — well,  it  must  be  confessed, 
sadly  but  surely,  that  Veranilda  was  a  failure  too.  Far 
otherwise  was  it  with  Ryecroft,  which  represents,  as  it  were, 
the  summa  of  Gissing's  habitual  meditation,  aesthetic  feeling 
and  sombre  emotional  experience.  Not  that  it  is  a  pessimistic 
work, — quite  the  contrary,  it  represents  the  mellowing 
influences,  the  increase  of  faith  in  simple,  unsophisticated 
English  girlhood  and  womanhood,  in  domestic  pursuits,  in 
innocent  children,  in  rural  homeliness  and  honest  Wessex 
landscape,  which  began  to  operate  about  1 896,  and  is  seen  so 
unmistakably  in  the  closing  scenes  of  The  Whirlpool.  Three 
chief  strains  are  subtly  interblended  in  the  composition. 
First  that  of  a  nature  book,  full  of  air,  foliage  and  landscape 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY          xlvii 

— that  English  landscape  art  of  Linnell  and  De  Wint  and 
Foster  for  which  he  repeatedly  expresses  such  a  passionate 
tendre,1  refreshed  by  '  blasts  from  the  channel,  with  raining 
scud  and  spume  of  mist  breaking  upon  the  hills '  in  which  he 
seems  to  crystallise  the  very  essence  of  a  Western  winter. 
Secondly,  a  paean  half  of  praise  and  half  of  regret  for  the 
vanishing  England,  passing  so  rapidly  even  as  he  writes  into 
'a  new  England  which  tries  so  hard  to  be  unlike  the  old.' 
A  deeper  and  richer  note  of  thankfulness,  mixed  as  it  must 
be  with  anxiety,  for  the  good  old  ways  of  English  life  (as 
lamented  by  Mr.  Poorgrass  and  Mark  Clark2),  old  English 
simplicity,  and  old  English  fare — the  fine  prodigality  of  the 
English  platter,  has  never  been  raised.  God  grant  that  the 
leaven  may  work !  And  thirdly  there  is  a  deeply  brooding 
strain  of  saddening  yet  softened  autobiographical  reminis- 
cence, over  which  is  thrown  a  light  veil  of  literary  apprecia- 
tion and  topical  comment.  Here  is  a  typical  cadenza,  rising 
to  a  swell  at  one  point  (suggestive  for  the  moment  of 
Raleigh's  famous  apostrophe),  and  then  most  gently  falling, 
in  a  manner  not  wholly  unworthy,  I  venture  to  think,  of 
Webster  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  of  both  of  which  authors 
there  is  internal  evidence  that  Gissing  made  some  study. 

'  I  always  turn  out  of  my  way  to  walk  through  a  country  church- 
yard ;  these  rural  resting-places  are  as  attractive  to  me  as  a  town 
cemetery  is  repugnant.  I  read  the  names  upon  the  stones  and 
find  a  deep  solace  in  thinking  that  for  all  these  the  fret  and  the 
fear  of  life  are  over.  There  comes  to  me  no  touch  of  sadness  ; 
whether  it  be  a  little  child  or  an  aged  man,  I  have  the  same  sense 
of  happy  accomplishment ;  the  end  having  come,  and  with  it  the 
eternal  peace,  what  matter  if  it  came  late  or  soon  ?  There  is  no 


1  'I  love  and  honour  even  the  least  of  English  landscape  painters.' — 
Ryecroft. 

*  '  But  what  with  the  parsons  and  clerks  and  school-people  and  serious 
tea-parties,  the  merry  old  ways  of  good  life  have  gone  to  the  dogs — upon  my 
carcass,  they  have ! ; — Far  from  the  Maddiny  Crowd. 


xlviii     THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

such  gratulation  as  Hie  jacet.  There  is  no  such  dignity  as  that  of 
death.  In  the  path  trodden  by  the  noblest  of  mankind  these  have 
followed  ;  that  which  of  all  who  live  is  the  utmost  thing  demanded, 
these  have  achieved.  I  cannot  sorrow  for  them,  but  the  thought 
of  their  vanished  life  moves  me  to  a  brotherly  tenderness.  The 
dead  amid  this  leafy  silence  seem  to  whisper  encouragement  to 
him  whose  fate  yet  lingers  :  As  we  are,  so  shalt  thou  be ;  and 
behold  our  quiet !' — (p.  183.) 

And  in  this  deeply  moving  and  beautiful  passage  we  get 
a  foretaste,  it  may  be,  of  the  euthanasia,  following  a  brief 
summer  of  St.  Martin,  for  which  the  scarred  and  troublous 
portions  of  Gissing's  earlier  life  had  served  as  a  preparation. 
Some  there  are,  no  doubt,  to  whom  it  will  seem  no 
extravagance  in  closing  these  private  pages  to  use  the 
author's  own  words,  of  a  more  potent  Enchanter :  '  As  I 
close  the  book,  love  and  reverence  possess  me.' 

Whatever  the  critics  may  determine  as  to  the  merit  of  the 
stories  in  the  present  volume,  there  can  be  no  question  as  to 
the  interest  they  derive  from  their  connection  with  what 
had  gone  before.  Thus  Topham's  Chance  is  manifestly  the 
outcome  of  material  pondered  as  early  as  1884.  The  Lodger 
in  Maze  Pond  develops  in  a  most  suggestive  fashion  certain 
problems  discussed  in  1894.  Miss  Rodney  is  a  re-incarnation 
of  Rhoda  Nunn  and  Constance  Bride.  Christopherson  is  a  de- 
licious expansion  of  a  mood  indicated  in  Ryecroft  (Spring  xu.), 
and  A  Capitalist  indicates  the  growing  interest  in  the  business 
side  of  practical  life,  the  dawn  of  which  is  seen  in  The  Town 
Traveller  and  in  the  discussion  of  Dickens's  potentialities  as 
a  capitalist.  The  very  artichokes  in  The  House  of  Cobwebs 
(which,  like  the  kindly  hand  that  raised  them,  alas !  fell  a 
victim  to  the  first  frost  of  the  season)  are  suggestive  of  a 
charming  passage  detailing  the  retired  author's  experience 
as  a  gardener.  What  Dr.  Furnivall  might  call  the  '  back- 
ward reach '  of  every  one  of  these  stories  will  render  their 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  xlix 

perusal  delightful  to  those  cultivated  readers  of  Gissing,  of 
whom  there  are  by  no  means  a  few,  to  whom  every  fragment 
of  his  suave  and  delicate  workmanship  '  repressed  yet  full  of 
power,  vivid  though  sombre  in  colouring/  has  a  technical 
interest  and  charm.  Nor  will  they  search  in  vain  for 
Gissing's  incorrigible  mannerisms,  his  haunting  insistence 
upon  the  note  of  '  Dort  wo  du  nicht  bist  ist  das  Gliick,'  his 
tricks  of  the  brush  in  portraiture,  his  characteristic  epithets, 
the  dusking  twilight,  the  decently  ignoble  penury,  the  not  ignoble 
ambition,  the  not  wholly  base  riot  of  the  senses  in  early  man- 
hood. In  my  own  opinion  we  have  here  in  The  Scrupulous 
Father,  and  to  a  less  degree,  perhaps,  in  the  first  and  last  of 
these  stories,  and  in  A  Poor  Gentleman  and  Christopherson, 
perfectly  characteristic  and  quite  admirable  specimens  of 
Gissing's  own  genre,  and  later,  unstudied,  but  always  finished 
prose  style. 

But  a  few  words  remain  to  be  said,  and  these,  in  part  at 
any  rate,  in  recapitulation.  In  the  old  race,  of  which 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  were  representative,  a  successful 
determination  to  rise  upon  the  broad  back  of  popularity 
coincided  with  a  growing  conviction  that  the  evil  in  the 
world  was  steadily  diminishing.  Like  healthy  schoolboys 
who  have  worked  their  way  up  to  the  sixth  form,  they 
imagined  that  the  bullying  of  which  they  had  had  to 
complain  was  become  pretty  much  a  thing  of  the  past.  In 
Gissing  the  misery  inherent  in  the  sharp  contrasts  of  modern 
life  was  a  far  more  deeply  ingrained  conviction.  He  cared 
little  for  the  remedial  aspect  of  the  question.  His  idea 
was  to  analyse  this  misery  as  an  artist  and  to  express  it  to 
the  world. 

One  of  the  most  impressive  elements  in  the  resulting 
novels  is  the  witness  they  bear  to  prolonged  and  intense 
suffering,  the  suffering  of  a  proud,  reserved,  and  over-sensitive 
mind  brought  into  constant  contact  with  the  coarse  and 

d 


1  THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

brutal  facts  of  life.  The  creator  of  Mr.  Biffen  suffers  all  the 
torture  of  the  fastidious,  the  delicately  honourable,  the 
scrupulously  high-minded  in  daily  contact  with  persons  of 
blunt  feelings,  low  ideals,  and  base  instincts.  '  Human  cattle, 
the  herd  that  feed  and  breed,  with  them  it  was  well ;  but 
the  few  born  to  a  desire  for  ever  unattainable,  the  gentle 
spirits  who  from  their  prisoning  circumstance  looked  up  and 
afar,  how  the  heart  ached  to  think  of  them  ! '  The  natural 
bent  of  Gissing's  talent  was  towards  poetry  and  classical 
antiquity.  His  mind  had  considerable  natural  affinity  with 
that  of  Tennyson.1  He  was  passionately  fond  of  old  litera- 
ture, of  the  study  of  metre  and  of  historical  reverie.  The 
subtle  curiosities  of  Anatole  France  are  just  of  the  kind  that 
would  have  appealed  irresistibly  to  him.  His  delight  in 
psychological  complexity  and  feats  of  style  are  not  seldom 
reminiscent  of  Paul  Bourget.  His  life  would  have  gained 
immeasurably  by  a  transference  to  less  pinched  and  pitiful 
surroundings :  but  it  is  more  than  doubtful  whether  his 
work  would  have  done  so. 

The  compulsion  of  the  twin  monsters  Bread  and  Cheese 
forced  him  to  write  novels  the  scene  of  which  was  laid 
in  the  one  milieu  he  had  thoroughly  observed,  that  of 
either  utterly  hideous  or  shabby  genteel  squalor  in  London. 
He  gradually  obtained  a  rare  mastery  in  the  delineation 
of  his  unlovely  mise  en  scene.  He  gradually  created  a 
small  public  who  read  eagerly  everything  that  came  from 
his  pen,  despite  his  economy  of  material  (even  of  ideas), 
and  despite  the  repetition  to  which  a  natural  tendency  was 
increased  by  compulsory  over-production.  In  all  his  best 
books  we  have  evidence  of  the  savage  and  ironical  delight 


1  In  a  young  lady's  album  I  unexpectedly  came  across  the  line  from  Maud, 
'Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways,'  with  the  signature, 
following  the  quotation  marks,  'George  Gissing.'  The  borrowed  aspiration 
was  transparently  sincere.  'Tennyson  he  worshipped'  (see  Odd  Women, 
chap.  i.).  The  contemporary  novelist  he  liked  most  was  Alphonse  Daudet, 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  li 

with  which  he  depicted  to  the  shadow  of  a  hair  the 
sordid  and  vulgar  elements  by  which  he  had  been 
so  cruelly  depressed.  The  aesthetic  observer  who  wanted 
material  for  a  picture  of  the  blank  desolation  and  ugli- 
ness of  modern  city  life  could  find  no  better  substratum 
than  in  the  works  of  George  Gissing.  Many  of  his  descrip- 
tions of  typical  London  scenes  in  Lambeth  Walk,  Clerken- 
well,  or  Judd  Street,  for  instance,  are  the  work  of  a 
detached,  remorseless,  photographic  artist  realising  that  ugly 
sordidness  of  daily  life  to  which  the  ordinary  observer 
becomes  in  the  course  of  time  as  completely  habituated  as 
he  does  to  the  smoke-laden  air.  To  a  cognate  sentiment  of 
revolt  I  attribute  that  excessive  deference  to  scholarship  and 
refinement  which  leads  him  in  so  many  novels  to  treat  these 
desirable  attributes  as  if  they  were  ends  and  objects  of  life 
in  themselves.  It  has  also  misled  him  but  too  often  into 
depicting  a  world  of  suicides,  ignoring  or  overlooking  a 
secret  hobby,  or  passion,  or  chimaera  which  is  the  one  thing 
that  renders  existence  endurable  to  so  many  of  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  life.  He  takes  existence  sadly — too  sadly, 
it  may  well  be ;  but  his  drabs  and  greys  provide  an  atmo- 
sphere that  is  almost  inseparable  to  some  of  us  from  our 
gaunt  London  streets.  In  Farringdon  Road,  for  example, 
I  look  up  instinctively  to  the  expressionless  upper  windows 
where  Mr.  Luckworth  Crewe  spreads  his  baits  for  intending 
advertisers.  A  tram  ride  through  Clerkenwell  and  its 
leagues  of  dreary,  inhospitable  brickwork  will  take  you 
through  the  heart  of  a  region  where  Clem  Peckover,  Penny- 
loaf  Candy,  and  Totty  Nancarrow  are  multiplied  rather  than 
varied  since  they  were  first  depicted  by  George  Gissing. 
As  for  the  British  Museum,  it  is  peopled  to  this  day  by 
characters  from  New  Grub  Street. 

There  may  be  a  perceptible  lack  of  virility,  a  fluctuating 
vagueness  of  outline  about  the  characterisation  of  some  of 
his  men.  In  his  treatment  of  crowds,  in  his  description  of 


Hi          THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

a  mob,  personified  as  '  some  huge  beast  purring  to  itself  in 
stupid  contentment/  he  can  have  few  rivals.  In  tracing  the 
influence  of  women  over  his  heroes  he  evinces  no  common 
subtlety ;  it  is  here  probably  that  he  is  at  his  best.  The 
odor  di  femmina,  to  use  a  phrase  of  Don  Giovanni's,  is  a 
marked  characteristic  of  his  books.  Of  the  kisses — 

'  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others' — 

there  are  indeed  many  to  be  discovered  hidden  away  be- 
tween these  pages.  And  the  beautiful  verse  has  a  fine 
parallel  in  the  prose  of  one  of  Gissing's  later  novels.  '  Some 
girl,  of  delicate  instinct,  of  purpose  sweet  and  pure,  wasting 
her  unloved  life  in  toil  and  want  and  indignity ;  some  man, 
whose  youth  and  courage  strove  against  a  mean  environ- 
ment, whose  eyes  grew  haggard  in  the  vain  search  fojr  a 
companion  promised  in  his  dreams;  they  lived,  these  two, 
parted  perchance  only  by  the  wall  of  neighbour  houses,  yet 
all  huge  London  was  between  them,  and  their  hands  would 
never  touch.'  The  dream  of  fair  women  which  occupies  the 
mood  of  Piers  Otway  in  the  opening  passage  of  the  same 
novel,  was  evidently  no  remotely  conceived  fancy.  Its 
realisation,  in  ideal  love,  represents  the  author's  Crown  of 
Life.  The  wise  man  who  said  that  Beautiful  Woman l  was 
a  heaven  to  the  eye,  a  hell  to  the  soul,  and  a  purgatory 
to  the  purse  of  man,  could  hardly  find  a  more  copious  field 
of  illustration  than  in  the  fiction  of  George  Gissing. 

Gissing  was  a  sedulous  artist ;  some  of  his  books,  it  is 
true,  are  very  hurried  productions,  finished  in  haste  for 
the  market  with  no  great  amount  either  of  inspiration 
or  artistic  confidence  about  them.  But  little  slovenly 

1  With  unconscious  recollection,  it  may  be,  of  Pope's  notable  phrase  in 
regard  to  Shakespeare,  he  speaks  in  his  last  novel  of  woman  appearing  at 
times  as  'a  force  of  Nature  rather  than  an  individual  being'  (Will  War- 
burton,  p.  275). 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  SURVEY  liii 

work  will  be  found  bearing  his  name,  for  he  was  a 
thoroughly  trained  writer ;  a  suave  and  seductive  work- 
manship had  become  a  second  nature  to  him,  and  there  was 
always  a  flavour  of  scholarly,  subacid  and  quasi-ironical 
modernity  about  his  style.  There  is  little  doubt  that  his 
quality  as  a  stylist  was  better  adapted  to  the  studies  of 
modern  London  life,  on  its  seamier  side,  which  he  had 
observed  at  first  hand,  than  to  stories  of  the  conventional 
dramatic  structure  which  he  too  often  felt  himself  bound 
to  adopt.  In  these  his  failure  to  grapple  with  a  big  objec- 
tive, or  to  rise  to  some  prosperous  situation,  is  often  pain- 
fully marked.  A  master  of  explanation  and  description 
rather  than  of  animated  narrative  or  sparkling  dialogue,  he 
lacked  the  wit  and  humour,  the  brilliance  and  energy  of  a 
consummate  style  which  might  have  enabled  him  to  compete 
with  the  great  scenic  masters  in  fiction,  or  with  craftsmen  such 
as  Hardy  or  Stevenson,  or  with  incomparable  wits  and  con- 
versationalists such  as  Meredith.  It  is  true,  again,  that  his 
London-street  novels  lack  certain  artistic  elements  of  beauty 
(though  here  and  there  occur  glints  of  rainy  or  sunset  town- 
scape  in  a  half-tone,  consummately  handled  and  eminently 
impressive) ;  and  his  intense  sincerity  cannot  wholly  atone  for 
this  loss.  Where,  however,  a  quiet  refinement  and  delicacy 
of  style  is  needed  as  in  those  sane  and  suggestive,  atmo- 
spheric, critical  or  introspective  studies,  such  as  By  the  Ionian 
Sea,  the  unrivalled  presentment  of  Charles  Dickens,  and  that 
gentle  masterpiece  of  softened  autobiography,  The  Private 
Papers  of  Henry  Ryecrojl  (its  resignation  and  autumnal  calm, 
its  finer  note  of  wistfulness  and  wide  human  compassion,  fully 
deserve  comparison  with  the  priceless  work  of  Silvio  Pellico) 
in  which  he  indulged  himself  during  the  last  and  increas- 
ingly prosperous  years  of  his  life,  then  Gissing's  style  is 
discovered  to  be  a  charmed  instrument.  That  he  will  sup 
late,  our  Gissing,  we  are  quite  content  to  believe.  But  that 
a  place  is  reserved  for  him,  of  that  at  any  rate  we  are  reason- 


liv         THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 

ably  confident.  The  three  books  just  named,  in  con- 
junction with  his  short  stories  and  his  New  Grub  Street  (not 
to  mention  Tkyrza  or  The  Nether  World),  will  suffice  to 
ensure  him  a  devout  and  admiring  group  of  followers  for 
a  very  long  time  to  come ;  they  accentuate  profoundly  the 
feeling  of  vivid  regret  and  almost  personal  loss  which  not  a 
few  of  his  more  assiduous  readers  experienced  upon  the  sad 
news  of  his  premature  death  at  St.  Jean  de  Luz  on  the  28th 
December  1903,  at  the  early  age  of  forty-six. 


ACTON, 

February  1906. 


THE  WORK  OF  GEORGE  GISSING 


Iv 


A  CHRONOLOGICAL  RECORD 


1880.  Workers  in  the  Dawn. 

1884.  The  Unclassed. 

1886.  Isabel  Clarendon. 

1886.  Demos. 

1887.  Thyrza. 

1888.  A  Life's  Morning. 

1889.  The  Nether  World. 

1890.  The  Emancipated. 

1891.  New  Grub  Street. 

1892.  Born  in  Exile. 

1892.  Denzil  Quarrier. 

1893.  The  Odd  Women. 

1894.  In  the  Year  of  Jubilee. 

1895.  The  Paying  Guest. 
1895.  Sleeping  Fires. 
1895.  Eve's  Ransom. 
1897.  The  Whirlpool. 


1898.  Human  Odds  and  Ends: 
Stories  and  Sketches. 

1898.  The  Town  Traveller. 

1898.  Charles  Dickens  :  a  Criti- 

cal Study. 

1899.  The  Crown  of  Life. 

1901 .  Our  Friend  the  Charlatan. 

1901.  By  the  Ionian  Sea.  Notes 
of  a  Ramble  in  Southern 
Italy. 

1903.  Forster's  Life  of  Dickens 
— Abridgement. 

1903.  The    Private     Papers    of 

Henry  Ryecroft. 

1904.  Veranilda :  a  Romance. 

1905.  Will  Warburton:   a  Ro- 

mance of  Real  Life. 

1906.  The  House  of  Cobwebs, 

and  other  Stories. 


[Of  notices  and  reviews  of  George  Gissing  other  than  those 
mentioned  in  the  foregoing  notes  the  following  is  a  selection : — 
Times,  29  Dec.  1903;  Guardian,  6  Jan.  1904;  Outlook,  2  Jan. 
1904;  Sphere,  9  Jan.  1904;  Athenaeum,  2  and  16  Jan.  1904; 
Academy,  9  Jan.  1904  (pp.  40  and  46) ;  New  York  Nation,  11  June 
1903  (an  adverse  but  interesting  paper  on  the  anti-social  side  of 
Gissing)  ;  The  Bookman  (New  York),  vol.  xviii.  ;  Independent  Review, 
Feb.  1904 ;  Fortnightly  Review,  Feb.  1904 ;  Contemporary  Review, 
Aug.  1897;  C.  F.  G.  Masterman's  In  Peril  of  Change,  1905, 
pp.  68-73  ;  Atlantic  Monthly,  xciii.  280;  Upton  Letters,  1905,  p.  206.] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

IT  was  five  o'clock  on  a  June  morning.  The  dirty-buff 
blind  of  the  lodging-house  bedroom  shone  like  cloth  of 
gold  as  the  sun's  unclouded  rays  poured  through  it, 
transforming  all  they  illumined,  so  that  things  poor 
and  mean  seemed  to  share  in  the  triumphant  glory  of 
new-born  day.  In  the  bed  lay  a  young  man  who  had 
already  been  awake  for  an  hour.  He  kept  stirring  un- 
easily, but  with  no  intention  of  trying  to  sleep  again. 
His  eyes  followed  the  slow  movement  of  the  sunshine 
on  the  wall-paper,  and  noted,  as  they  never  had  done 
before,  the  details  of  the  flower  pattern,  which  repre- 
sented no  flower  wherewith  botanists  are  acquainted, 
yet,  in  this  summer  light,  turned  the  thoughts  to  garden 
and  field  and  hedgerow.  The  young  man  had  a 
troubled  mind,  and  his  thoughts  ran  thus : — 

*  I  must  have  three  months  at  least,  and  how  am  I 
to  live  ?  .  .  .  Fifteen  shillings  a  week — not  quite  that, 
if  I  spread  my  money  out.  Can  one  live  on  fifteen 
shillings  a  week — rent,  food,  washing?  ...  I  shall 
have  to  leave  these  lodgings  at  once.  They're  not 
luxurious,  but  I  can't  live  here  under  twenty-five,  that 's 
clear.  .  .  .  Three  months  to  finish  my  book.  It's 
good  ;  I  'm  hanged  if  it  isn't !  This  time  I  shall  find 
a  publisher.  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  stick  at  my  work 
and  keep  my  mind  easy.  .  .  .  Lucky  that  it's  summer; 

A 


2  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

I  don"1!  need  fires.  Any  corner  would  do  for  me  where 
I  can  be  quiet  and  see  the  sun.  .  .  .  Wonder  whether 
some  cottager  in  Surrey  would  house  and  feed  me  for 
fifteen  shillings  a  week  ?  .  .  .  No  use  lying  here.  Better 
get  up  and  see  how  things  look  after  an  hour's  walk.' 

So  the  young  man  arose  and  clad  himself,  and  went 
out  into  the  shining  street.  His  name  was  Goldthorpe. 
His  years  were  not  yet  three-and -twenty.  Since  the 
age  of  legal  independence  he  had  been  living  alone  in 
London,  solitary  and  poor,  very  proud  of  a  whole- 
hearted devotion  to  the  career  of  authorship.  As  soon 
as  he  slipped  out  of  the  stuffy  house,  the  live  air, 
perfumed  with  freshness  from  meadows  and  hills  afar, 
made  his  blood  pulse  joyously.  He  was  at  the  age  of 
hope,  and  something  within  him,  which  did  not  repre- 
sent mere  youthful  illusion,  supported  his  courage  in 
the  face  of  calculations  such  as  would  have  damped 
sober  experience.  With  boyish  step,  so  light  and 
springy  that  it  seemed  anxious  to  run  and  leap,  he  took 
his  way  through  a  suburb  south  of  Thames,  and  pushed 
on  towards  the  first  rising  of  the  Surrey  hills.  And  as 
he  walked  resolve  strengthened  itself  in  his  heart. 
Somehow  or  other  he  would  live  independently  through 
the  next  three  months.  If  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  he  could  earn  bread  as  clerk  or  labourer,  but  as 
long  as  his  money  lasted  he  would  pursue  his  purpose, 
and  that  alone.  He  sang  to  himself  in  this  gallant 
determination,  happy  as  if  some  one  had  left  him  a 
fortune. 

In  an  ascending  road,  quiet  and  tree-shadowed,  where 
the  dwellings  on  either  side  were  for  the  most  part  old 
and  small,  though  here  and  there  a  brand-new  edifice 
on  a  larger  scale  showed  that  the  neighbourhood  was 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  8 

undergoing  change  such  as  in  our  time  destroys  the 
picturesque  in  all  London  suburbs,  the  cheery  dreamer 
chanced  to  turn  his  eyes  upon  a  spot  of  desolation 
which  aroused  his  curiosity  and  set  his  fancy  at  work. 
Before  him  stood  three  deserted  houses,  a  little  row 
once  tenanted  by  middle-class  folk,  but  now  for  some 
time  unoccupied  and  unrepaired.  They  were  of  brick, 
but  the  fronts  had  a  stucco  facing  cut  into  imitation 
of  ashlar,  and  weathered  to  the  sombrest  grey.  The 
windows  of  the  ground  floor  and  of  that  above,  and  the 
fanlights  above  the  doors,  were  boarded  up,  a  guard 
against  unlicensed  intrusion ;  the  top  story  had  not 
been  thought  to  stand  in  need  of  this  protection,  and  a 
few  panes  were  broken.  On  these  dead  frontages  could 
be  traced  the  marks  of  climbing  plants,  which  once 
hung  their  leaves  about  each  doorway ;  dry  frag- 
ments of  the  old  stem  still  adhered  to  the  stucco. 
What  had  been  the  narrow  strip  of  fore-garden,  railed 
from  the  pavement,  was  now  a  little  wilderness  of 
coarse  grass,  docks,  nettles,  and  degenerate  shrubs. 
The  paint  on  the  doors  had  lost  all  colour,  and  much  of 
it  was  blistered  off;  the  three  knockers  had  disappeared, 
leaving  indications  of  rough  removal,  as  if — which  was 
probably  the  case — they  had  fallen  a  prey  to  marauders. 
Standing  full  in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  this  spectacle  of 
abandonment  seemed  sadder,  yet  less  ugly,  than  it  would 
have  looked  under  a  gloomy  sky.  Goldthorpe  began  to 
weave  stories  about  its  musty  squalor.  He  crossed  the 
road  to  make  a  nearer  inspection ;  and  as  he  stood 
gazing  at  the  dishonoured  thresholds,  at  the  stained 
and  cracked  boarding  of  the  blind  windows,  at  the 
rusty  paling  and  the  broken  gates,  there  sounded  from 
somewhere  near  a  thin,  shaky  strain  of  music,  the  notes 


4  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

of  a  concertina  played  with  uncertain  hand.  The 
sound  seemed  to  come  from  within  the  houses,  yet  how 
could  that  be  ?  Assuredly  no  one  lived  under  these 
crazy  roofs.  The  musician  was  playing  '  Home,  Sweet 
Home,'  and  as  Goldthorpe  listened  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  sound  was  not  stationary.  Indeed,  it  moved  ; 
it  became  more  distant,  then  again  the  notes  sounded 
more  distinctly,  and  now  as  if  the  player  were  in  the 
open  air.  Perhaps  he  was  at  the  back  of  the  houses  ? 

On  either  side  ran  a  narrow  passage,  which  parted 
the  spot  of  desolation  from  inhabited  dwellings.  Ex- 
ploring one  of  these,  Goldthorpe  found  that  there  lay 
in  the  rear  a  tract  of  gardens.  Each  of  the  three 
lifeless  houses  had  its  garden  of  about  twenty  yards 
long.  The  bordering  wall  along  the  passage  allowed  a 
man  of  average  height  to  peer  over  it,  and  Goldthorpe 
searched  with  curious  eye  the  piece  of  ground  which  was 
nearest  to  him.  Many  a  year  must  have  gone  by  since 
any  gardening  was  done  here.  Once  upon  a  time  the 
useful  and  ornamental  had  both  been  represented  in 
this  modest  space ;  now,  flowers  and  vegetables,  such  of 
them  as  survived  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  mingled 
together,  and  all  alike  were  threatened  by  a  wild,  rank 
growth  of  grasses  and  weeds,  which  had  obliterated  the 
beds,  hidden  the  paths,  and  made  of  the  whole  garden 
plot  a  green  jungle.  But  Goldthorpe  gave  only  a 
glance  at  this  still  life ;  his  interest  was  engrossed  by  a 
human  figure,  seated  on  a  campstool  near  the  back  wall 
of  the  house,  and  holding  a  concertina,  whence,  at  this 
moment,  in  slow,  melancholy  strain,  *  Home,  Sweet 
Home'  began  to  wheeze  forth.  The  player  was  a 
middle-aged  man,  dressed  like  a  decent  clerk  or  shop- 
keeper, his  head  shaded  with  an  old  straw  hat  rather 


too  large  for  him,  and  on  his  feet — one  of  which  swung 
as  he  sat  with  legs  crossed — a  pair  of  still  more  ancient 
slippers,  also  too  large.  With  head  aside,  and  eyes 
looking  upward,  he  seemed  to  listen  in  a  mild  ecstasy 
to  the  notes  of  his  instrument.  He  had  a  round  face 
of  much  simplicity  and  good-nature,  semicircular  eye- 
brows, pursed  little  mouth  with  abortive  moustache, 
and  short  thin  beard  fringing  the  chinless  lower  jaw. 
Having  observed  this  unimposing  person  for  a  minute 
or  two,  himself  unseen,  Goldthorpe  surveyed  the  rear  of 
the  building,  anxious  to  discover  any  sign  of  its  still 
serving  as  human  habitation ;  but  nothing  spoke  of 
tenancy.  The  windows  on  this  side  were  not  boarded, 
and  only  a  few  panes  were  broken  ;  but  the  chief  point 
of  contrast  with  the  desolate  front  was  made  by  a 
Virginia  creeper,  which  grew  luxuriantly  up  to  the 
eaves,  hiding  every  sign  of  decay  save  those  dim,  dusty 
apertures  which  seemed  to  deny  all  possibility  of  life 
within.  And  yet,  on  looking  steadily,  did  he  not 
discern  something  at  one  of  the  windows  on  the  top 
story  —  something  like  a  curtain  or  a  blind  ?  And 
had  not  that  same  window  the  appearance  of  having 
been  more  recently  cleaned  than  the  others?  He 
could  not  be  sure ;  perhaps  he  only  fancied  these 
things.  With  neck  aching  from  the  strained  position 
in  which  he  had  made  his  survey  over  the  wall,  the 
young  man  turned  away.  In  the  same  moment  '  Home, 
Sweet  Home '  came  to  an  end,  and,  but  for  the  cry  of 
a  milkman,  the  early-morning  silence  was  undisturbed. 

Goldthorpe  pursued  his  walk,  thinking  of  what  he 
had  seen,  and  wondering  what  it  all  meant.  On  his 
way  back  he  made  a  point  of  again  passing  the  de- 
serted houses,  and  again  he  peered  over  the  wall  of 


6  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

the  passage.  The  man  was  still  there,  but  no  longer 
seated  with  the  concertina ;  wearing  a  round  felt  hat 
instead  of  the  straw,  he  stood  almost  knee-deep  in 
vegetation,  and  appeared  to  be  examining  the  various 
growths  about  him.  Presently  he  moved  forward,  and, 
with  head  still  bent,  approached  the  lower  end  of  the 
garden,  where,  in  a  wall  higher  than  that  over  which 
Goldthorpe  made  his  espial,  there  was  a  wooden  door. 
This  the  man  opened  with  a  key,  and,  having  passed 
out,  could  be  heard  to  turn  a  lock  behind  him.  A 
minute  more,  and  this  short,  respectable  figure  came 
into  sight  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  Goldthorpe  could 
not  resist  the  opportunity  thus  offered.  Affecting  to 
turn  a  look  of  interest  towards  the  nearest  roof,  he 
waited  until  the  stranger  was  about  to  pass  him,  then, 
with  civil  greeting;  ventured  upon  a  question. 

1  Can  you  tell  me  how  these  houses  come  to  be  in 
this  neglected  state  ? ' 

The  stranger  smiled ;  a  soft,  modest,  deferential 
smile  such  as  became  his  countenance,  and  spoke  in  a 
corresponding  voice,  which  had  a  vaguely  provincial 
accent. 

'No  wonder  it  surprises  you,  sir.  I  should  be  sur- 
prised myself.  It  comes  of  quarrels  and  lawsuits.' 

'  So  I  supposed.  Do  you  know  who  the  property 
belongs  to  ? ' 

'  Well,  yes,  sir.     The  fact  is — it  belongs  to  me." 

The  avowal  was  made  apologetically,  and  yet  with  a 
certain  timid  pride.  Goldthorpe  exhibited  all  the 
interest  he  felt.  An  idea  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in 
his  mind ;  he  met  the  stranger's  look,  and  spoke  with 
the  easy  good-humour  natural  to  him. 

*  It  seems  a  great  pity  that  houses  should  be  stand- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  7 

ing  empty  like  that.  Are  they  quite  uninhabitable  ? 
Couldn't  one  camp  here  during  this  fine  summer 
weather?  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  looking  for  a 
room — as  cheap  a  room  as  I  can  get.  Could  you  let 
me  one  for  the  next  three  months  ? ' 

The  stranger  was  astonished.  He  regarded  the 
young  man  with  an  uneasy  smile. 

'  You  are  joking,  sir.' 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Is  the  thing  quite  impossible  ? 
Are  all  the  rooms  in  too  bad  a  state  ? ' 

*  I  won't  say  that,''  replied  the  other  cautiously,  still 
eyeing  his  interlocutor  with  surprised  glances.     'The 
upper  rooms  are  really  not  so  bad — that  is  to  say,  from 
a  humble  point  of  view.      I — I   have  been  looking  at 
them  just  now.     You  really  mean,  sir ? ' 

*  I  'm   quite  in   earnest,   I  assure  you,'  cried   Gold- 
thorpe  cheerily.     '  You  see  I  'm  tolerably  well  dressed 
still,   but  I've    precious    little  money,  and  I  want  to 
eke  out  the  little  I've   got  for  about  three  months. 
I'm  writing  a  book.      I  think  I  shall  manage  to  sell 
it  when  it 's  done,  but  it  '11  take  me  about  three  months 
yet.       I  don't  care  what  sort  of    place  I    live   in,  so 
long  as  it 's  quiet.     Couldn't  we  come  to  terms  ? ' 

The  listener's  visage  seemed  to  grow  rounder  in 
progressive  astonishment ;  his  eyes  declared  an  emotion 
akin  to  awe ;  his  little  mouth  shaped  itself  as  if  about 
to  whistle. 

'  A  book,  sir  ?  You  are  writing  a  book  ?  You  are 
a  literary  man  ? ' 

*  Well,  a  beginner.      I  have  poverty  on  my  side,  you 
see.' 

f  Why,  it 's  like  Dr.  Johnson  ! '  cried  the  other,  his 
face  glowing  with  interest.  *  It 's  like  Chatterton  !— 


8  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

though  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  won't  end  like  him,  sir. 
It 's  like  Goldsmith  ! — indeed  it  is  ! ' 

4 1  've  got  half  Oliver's  name,  at  all  events,'  laughed 
the  young  man.  '  Mine  is  Goldthorpe.' 

*  You  don't  say  so,  sir  !    What  a  strange  coincidence  ! 
Mine,  sir,  is  Spicer.     I — I   don't  know  whether  you  'd 
care    to    come    into    my    garden  ?       We    might    talk 
there ' 

In  a  minute  or  two  they  were  standing  amid  the 
green  jungle,  which  Goldthorpe  viewed  with  delight. 
He  declared  it  the  most  picturesque  garden  he  had 
ever  seen. 

*  Why,  there  are  potatoes  growing  there.     And  what 
are  those  things?      Jerusalem  artichokes?     And  look 
at  that  magnificent  thistle  ;  I  never  saw  a  finer  thistle 
in  my  life  !      And  poppies — and  marigolds — and  broad- 
beans — and  isn't  that  lettuce  ? ' 

Mr.  Spicer  was  red  with  gratification. 

*  I   feel    that    something    might    be    done  with  the 
garden,  sir,'   he  said.       '  The    fact    is,  sir,   I  Ve    only 
lately  come  into  this  property,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say 
it'll  only  be  mine  for    a  little    more  than  a  year — a 
year  from  next  midsummer  day,  sir.      There 's  the  ex- 
planation of  what  you   see.       It's  leasehold  property, 
and  the  lease  is  just  coming   to  its  end.      Five  years 
ago,  sir,  an  uncle  of  mine  inherited  the  property  from 
his  brother.       The    houses    were    then    in  a  very  bad 
state,  and  only  one  of  them  let,  and  there  had  been 
lawsuits  going  on  for  a  long  time  between   the  lease- 
holder and  the  ground-landlord — I  can't  quite  understand 
these  matters,  they  're  not  at  all  in  my  line,  sir ;  but 
at  all  events  there  were  quarrels  and  lawsuits,  and  I  'm 
told  one  of  the  tenants  was  somehow  mixed  up  in  it. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  9 

The  fact  is,  my  uncle  wasn't  a  very  well-to-do  man, 
and  perhaps  he  didn't  feel  able  to  repair  the  houses, 
especially  as  the  lease  was  drawing  to  its  end.  Would 
you  like  to  go  in  and  have  a  look  round  ? ' 

They  entered  by  the  back  door,  which  admitted 
them  to  a  little  wash-house.  The  window  was  over- 
spun  with  cobwebs,  thick,  hoary ;  each  corner  of  the 
ceiling  was  cobweb-packed ;  long,  dusty  filaments  de- 
pended along  the  walls.  Notwithstanding,  Goldthorpe 
noticed  that  the  house  had  a  water-supply ;  the  sink 
was  wet,  the  tap  above  it  looked  new.  This  con- 
firmed a  suspicion  in  his  mind,  but  he  made  no 
remark.  They  passed  into  the  kitchen.  Here  again 
the  work  of  the  spider  showed  thick  on  every  hand. 
The  window,  however,  though  uncleaned  for  years,  had 
recently  been  opened ;  one  knew  that  by  the  torn  and 
ragged  condition  of  the  webs  where  the  sashes  joined. 
And  lo !  on  the  window-sill  stood  a  plate,  a  cup  and 
saucer,  a  knife,  a  fork,  a  spoon  —  all  of  them  mani- 
festly new-washed.  Goldthorpe  affected  not  to  see  these 
objects  ;  he  averted  his  face  to  hide  an  involuntary  smile. 

*  I  must  light  a  candle,'  said  Mr.  Spicer.  *  The 
staircase  is  quite  dark.1 

A  candle  stood  ready,  with  a  box  of  matches,  on 
the  rusty  cooking-stove.  No  fire  had  burned  in  the 
grate  for  many  a  long  day;  of  that  the  visitor 
assured  himself.  Save  the  objects  on  the  window-sill, 
no  evidence  of  human  occupation  was  discoverable. 
Having  struck  a  light,  Mr.  Spicer  advanced.  In  the 
front  passage,  on  the  stairs,  on  the  landing,  every 
angle  and  every  projection  had  its  drapery  of  cobwebs. 
The  stuffy,  musty  air  smelt  of  cobwebs ;  so,  at  all 
events,  did  Goldthorpe  explain  to  himself  a  peculiar 


10  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

odour  which  he  seemed  never  to  have  smelt.  It  was 
the  same  in  the  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor.  Through 
the  boarded  windows  of  that  in  front  penetrated  a 
few  thin  rays  from  the  golden  sky;  they  gleamed  upon 
dust  and  web,  on  faded,  torn  wall-paper  and  a  fireplace 
in  ruins. 

*  I  shouldn't  recommend  you  to  take  either  of  these 
rooms,1  said  Mr.  Spicer,  looking  nervously  at  his  com- 
panion.    '  They  really  can't  be  called  attractive.' 

*  Those  on  the  top  are  healthier,  no  doubt,'  was  the 
young  man's  reply.     *  I  noticed  that  some  of  the  window- 
glass  is  broken.     That  must  have  been  good  for  airing.' 

Mr.  Spicer  grew  more  and  more  nervous.  He  opened 
his  little  round  mouth,  very  much  like  a  fish  gasping, 
but  seemed  unable  to  speak.  Silently  he  led  the  way 
to  the  top  story,  still  amid  cobwebs;  the  atmosphere 
was  certainly  purer  up  here,  and  when  they  entered  the 
first  room  they  found  themselves  all  at  once  in  such  a 
flood  of  glorious  sunshine  that  Goldthorpe  shouted  with 
delight. 

'  Ah,  I  could  live  here !  Would  it  cost  much  to 
have  panes  put  in  ?  An  old  woman  with  a  broom 
would  do  the  rest.'  He  added  in  a  moment,  '  But  the 
back  windows  are  not  broken,  I  think  ?  ' 

*  No — I  think  not — I — no ' 

Mr.  Spicer  gasped  and  stammered.  He  stood  holding 
the  candle  (its  light  invisible)  so  that  the  grease  dripped 
steadily  on  his  trousers. 

'  Let 's  have  a  look  at  the  other,'  cried  Goldthorpe. 
'  It  gets  the  afternoon  sun,  no  doubt.  And  "one  would 
have  a  view  of  the  garden.' 

{  Stop,  sir  ! '  broke  from  his  companion,  who  was  red 
and  perspiring.  *  There's  something  I  should  like  to 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  11 

tell  you  before  you  go  into  that  room.  I — it — the 
fact  is,  sir,  that — temporarily — I  am  occupying  it 
myself.' 

'  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Spicer  ! ' 

*  Not  at  all,  sir !     Don't  mention  it,  sir.      I  have  a 
reason — it  seemed  to  me — I  've  merely  put  in  a  bed  and 
a  table,  sir,  that's  all — a  temporary  arrangement.' 

*  Yes,  yes  ;  I  quite  understand.     What  could  be  more 
sensible  ?     If   the  house  were  mine,  I    should    do  the 
same.     What 's  the  good  of  owning  a  house,  and  making 
no  use  of  it  ? ' 

Great  was  Mr.  Spicer's  satisfaction. 

'  See  what  it  is,  sir,'  he  exclaimed,  *  to  have  to  do 
with  a  literary  man  !  You  are  large-minded,  sir ;  you 
see  things  from  an  intellectual  point  of  view.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  it  gratifies  me,  sir,  to  have  made  your 
acquaintance.  Let  us  go  into  the  back  room.' 

With  nervous  boldness  he  threw  the  door  open. 
Goldthorpe,  advancing  respectfully,  saw  that  Mr.  Spicer 
had  not  exaggerated  the  simplicity  of  his  arrangements. 
In  a  certain  measure  the  room  had  been  cleaned,  but 
along  the  angle  of  walls  and  ceiling  there  still  clung  a 
good  many  cobwebs,  and  the  state  of  the  paper  was 
deplorable.  A  blind  hung  at  the  window,  but  the  floor 
had  no  carpet.  In  one  corner  stood  a  little  camp  bed, 
neatly  made  for  the  day ;  a  table  and  a  chair,  of  the 
cheapest  species,  occupied  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and 
on  the  hearth  was  an  oil  cooking-stove. 

*  It 's  wonderful  how  little  one  really  wants,'  remarked 
Mr.  Spicer,  '  at  all  events  in  weather  such  as  this.     I 
find  that  I  get  along  here  very  well  indeed.     The  only 
expense  I  had  was  for  the  water-supply.     And  really, 
sir,  when  one  comes    to   think  of   it,  the  situation  is 


12  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

pleasant.  If  one  doesn't  mind  loneliness  —  and  it 
happens  that  I  don't.  I  have  my  books,  sir ' 

He  opened  the  door  of  a  cupboard  containing  several 
shelves.  The  first  thing  Goldthorpe's  eye  fell  upon  was 
the  concertina ;  he  saw  also  sundry  articles  of  clothing, 
neatly  disposed,  a  little  crockery,  and,  ranged  on  the 
two  top  shelves,  some  thirty  volumes,  all  of  venerable 
aspect. 

4  Literature,  sir,'  pursued  Mr.  Spicer  modestly,  '  has 
always  been  my  comfort.  I  haven't  had  very  much  time 
for  reading,  but  my  motto,  sir,  has  been  nulla  dies  sine 
linea? 

It  appeared  from  his  pronunciation  that  Mr.  Spicer 
was  no  classical  scholar,  but  he  uttered  the  Latin  words 
with  infinite  gusto,  and  timidly  watched  their  effect 
upon  the  listener. 

'This  is  delightful,'  cried  Mr.  Goldthorpe.  'Will 
you  let  me  have  the  front  room?  I  could  work  here 
splendidly — splendidly !  What  rent  do  you  ask,  Mr. 
Spicer  ? ' 

'  Why  really,  sir,  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  Of  course  the  windows  must  be  seen  to. 
The  fact  is,  sir,  if  you  felt  disposed  to  do  that  at  your 
own  expense,  and — and  to  have  the  room  cleaned,  and — 
and,  let  us  say,  to  bear  half  the  water-rate  whilst  you 
are  here,  why,  really,  I  hardly  feel  justified  in  asking 
anything  more.' 

It  was  Goldthorpe's  turn  to  be  embarrassed,  for,  little 
as  he  was  prepared  to  pay,  he  did  not  like  to  accept  a 
stranger's  generosity.  They  discussed  the  matter  in 
detail,  with  the  result  that  for  the  arrangement  which  Mr. 
Spicer  had  proposed  there  was  substituted  a  weekly  rent 
of  two  shillings,  the  lease  extending  over  a  period  of 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  13 

three  months.  Goldthorpe  was  to  live  quite  indepen- 
dently, asking  nothing  in  the  way  of  domestic  service ; 
moreover,  he  was  requested  to  introduce  no  other  person 
to  the  house,  even  as  casual  visitor.  These  conditions 
Mr.  Spicer  set  forth,  in  a  commercial  hand,  on  a  sheet 
of  notepaper,  and  the  agreement  was  solemnly  signed  by 
both  contracting  parties. 

On  the  way  home  to  breakfast  Goldthorpe  reviewed 
his  position  now  that  he  had  taken  this  decisive  step. 
It  was  plain  that  he  must  furnish  his  room  with  the 
articles  which  Mr.  Spicer  found  indispensable,  and  this 
outlay,  be  as  economical  as  he  might,  would  tell  upon 
the  little  capital  which  was  to  support  him  for  three 
months.  Indeed,  when  all  had  been  done,  and  he  found 
himself,  four  days  later,  dwelling  on  the  top  story  of 
the  house  of  cobwebs,  a  simple  computation  informed 
him  that  his  total  expenditure,  after  payment  of  rent, 
must  not  exceed  fifteenpence  a  day.  What  matter  ? 
He  was  in  the  highest  spirits,  full  of  energy  and  hope. 
His  landlord  had  been  kind  and  helpful  in  all  sorts  of 
ways,  helping  him  to  clean  the  room,  to  remove  his 
property  from  the  old  lodgings,  to  make  purchases  at 
the  lowest  possible  rate,  to  establish  himself  as  comfort- 
ably as  circumstances  permitted.  And  when,  on  the 
first  morning  of  his  tenancy,  he  was  awakened  by  a 
brilliant  sun,  the  young  man  had  a  sensation  of  comfort 
and  satisfaction  quite  new  in  his  experience ;  for  he  was 
really  at  home ;  the  bed  he  slept  on,  the  table  he  ate  at 
and  wrote  upon,  were  his  own  possessions ;  he  thought 
with  pity  of  his  lodging-house  life,  and  felt  a  joyous 
assurance  that  here  he  would  do  better  work  than  ever 
before. 

In  less  than  a  week  Mr.  Spicer  and  he  were  so  friendly 


14  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

that  they  began  to  eat  together,  taking  it  in  turns  to 
prepare  the  meal.  Now  and  then  they  walked  in 
company,  and  every  evening  they  sat  smoking  (very 
cheap  tobacco)  in  the  wild  garden.  Little  by  little  Mr. 
Spicer  revealed  the  facts  of  his  history.  He  had  begun 
life,  in  a  midland  town,  as  a  chemist's  errand-boy,  and 
by  steady  perseverance,  with  a  little  pecuniary  help  from 
relatives,  had  at  length  risen  to  the  position  of  chemist's 
assistant.  For  five-and-twenty  years  he  practised  such 
rigid  economy  that,  having  no  one  but  himself  to 
provide  for,  he  began  to  foresee  a  possibility  of  passing  his 
old  age  elsewhere  than  in  the  workhouse.  Then  befell 
the  death  of  his  uncle,  which  was  to  have  important 
consequences  for  him.  Mr.  Spicer  told  the  story  of  this 
exciting  moment  late  one  evening,  when,  kept  indoors 
by  rain,  the  companions  sat  together  upstairs,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  rusty  and  empty  fireplace. 

*  All  my  life,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  I  've  thought  what  a 
delightful  thing  it  must  be  to  have  a  house  of  one's  own. 
I  mean,  really  of  one's  own ;  not  only  a  rented  house, 
but  one  in  which  you  could  live  and  die,  feeling  that  no 
one  had  a  right  to  turn  you  out.  Often  and  often  I  've 
dreamt  of  it,  and  tried  to  imagine  what  the  feeling 
would  be  like.  Not  a  large,  fine  house — oh  dear,  no  ! 
I  didn't  care  how  small  it  might  be ;  indeed,  the  smaller 
the  better  for  a  man  of  my  sort.  Well,  then,  you  can 

imagine  how  it  came  upon  me  when  I  heard But 

let  me  tell  you  first  that  I  hadn't  seen  my  uncle  for  fifteen 
years  or  more.  I  had  always  thought  him  a  well-to-do 
man,  and  I  knew  he  wasn't  married,  but  the  truth  is,  it 
never  came  into  my  head  that  he  might  leave  me  some- 
thing. Picture  me,  Mr.  Goldthorpe — you  have  imagina- 
tion, sir — standing  behind  the  counter  and  thinking 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  15 

about  nothing  but  business,  when  in  comes  a  young 
gentleman — I  see  him  now — and  asks  for  Mr.  Spicer. 
"  Spicer  is  my  name,  sir,11  I  said.  "  And  you  are  the 
nephew,11  were  his  next  words,  "  of  the  late  Mr.  Isaac 
Spicer,  of  Clapham,  London  ?  "  That  shook  me,  sir,  I 
assure  you  it  did,  but  I  hope  I  behaved  decently.  The 
young  gentleman  went  on  to  tell  me  that  my  uncle  had 
left  no  will,  and  that  I  was  believed  to  'be  his  next- 
of-kin,  and  that  if  so,  I  inherited  all  his  property,  the 
principal  part  of  which  was  three  houses  in  London. 
Now  try  and  think,  Mr.  GoldthorpCj  what  sort  of  state 
I  was  in  after  hearing  that.  You  're  an  intellectual 
man,  and  you  can  enter  into  another's  mind.  Three 
houses  !  Well,  sir,  you  know  what  houses  those  were. 
I  came  up  to  London  at  once  (it  was  last  autumn),  and 
I  saw  my  uncle's  lawyer,  and  he  told  me  all  about  the 
property,  and  I  saw  it  for  myself.  Ah,  Mr.  Goldthorpe  ! 
If  ever  a  man  suffered  a  bitter  disappointment,  sir  ! ' 

He  ended  on  a  little  laugh,  as  if  excusing  himself 
for  making  so  much  of  his  story,  and  sat  for  a  moment 
with  head  bowed. 

*  Fate  played  you  a  nasty  trick  there,'  said  Goldthorpe. 
'  A  knavish  trick.' 

*  One  felt  almost  justified  in  using  strong  language, 
sir — though  I  always  avoid  it  on  principle.     However, 
I  must  tell  you  that  the  houses  weren't  all.     Luckily 
there  was  a  little  money  as  well,  and,  putting  it  with 
my  own   savings,   sir,  I   found   it   would  yield   me  an 
income.     When  I  say  an  income,  I  mean,  of  course,  for 
a  man  in  my  position.     Even  when  I  have  to  go  into 
lodgings,  when  my  houses  become  the  property  of  the 
ground-landlord — to    my    mind,    Mr.    Goldthorpe,     a 
very     great    injustice,    but    I    don't    set    myself    up 


16  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

against  the  law  of  the  land — I  shall  just  be  able  to 
live.  And  that 's  no  small  blessing,  sir,  as  I  think  you  '11 
agree.' 

*  Rather !  It 's  the  height  of  hum-in  felicity,  Mr. 
Spicer.  I  envy  you  vastly.' 

4  Well,  sir,  I  'm  rather  disposed  to  look  at  it  in  that 
light  myself.  My  nature  is  not  discontented,  Mr. 
Goldthorpe.  *  But,  sir,  if  you  could  have  seen  me  when 
the  lawyer  began  to  explain  about  the  houses !  I  was 
absolutely  ignorant  of  the  leasehold  system ;  and  at  first 
I  really  couldn't  understand.  The  lawyer  thought  me 
a  fool,  I  fear,  sir.  And  when  I  came  down  here  and  saw 
the  houses  themselves  !  I  'm  afraid,  Mr.  Goldthorpe, 
I'm  really  afraid,  sir,  I  was  weak  enough  to  shed  a 
tear.' 

They  were  sitting  by  the  light  of  a  very  small  lamp, 
which  did  not  tend  to  cheerfulness. 

'  Come,'  cried  Goldthorpe,  '  after  all,  the  houses  are 
yours  for  a  twelvemonth.  Why  shouldn't  we  both  live 
on  here  all  the  time  ?  It  '11  be  a  little  breezy  in  winter, 
but  we  could  have  the  fireplaces  knocked  into  shape, 
and  keep  up  good  fires.  When  I  've  sold  my  book  I  '11 
pay  a  higher  rent,  Mr.  Spicer.  I  like  the  old  house, 
upon  my  word  I  do  !  Come,  let  us  have  a  tune  before 
we  go  to  bed.' 

Smiling  and  happy,  Mr.  Spicer  fetched  from  the 
cupboard  his  concertina,  and  after  the  usual  apology  for 
what  he  called  his  '  imperfect  mastery  of  the  instrument,' 
sat  down  to  play  '  Home,  Sweet  Home.'  He  had  played 
it  for  years,  and  evidently  would  never  improve  in  his 
execution.  After  *  Home,  Sweet  Home '  came  '  The 
Bluebells  of  Scotland,'  after  that  '  Annie  Laurie ' ;  and 
Mr.  Spicer's  repertory  was  at  an  end.  He  talked  of 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  17 

learning  new  pieces,  but  there   was  not   the   slightest 
hope  of  this  achievement. 

Mr.  Spicer's  mental  development  had  ceased  more 
than  twenty  years  ago,  when,  after  extreme  efforts,  he 
had  attained  the  qualification  of  chemist's  assistant. 
Since  then  the  world  had  stood  still  with  him.  Though 
a  true  lover  of  books,  he  knew  nothing  of  any  that  had 
been  published  during  his  own  lifetime.  His  father, 
though  very  poor,  had  possessed  a  little  collection  of 
volumes,  the  very  same  which  now  stood  in  Mr.  Spicer's 
cupboard.  The  authors  represented  in  this  library  were 
either  English  classics  or  obscure  writers  of  the  early 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Knowing  these  books 
very  thoroughly,  Mr.  Spicer  sometimes  indulged  in  a 
quotation  which  would  have  puzzled  even  the  erudite. 
His  favourite  poet  was  Cowper,  whose  moral  sentiments 
greatly  soothed  him.  He  spoke  of  Byron  like  some  con- 
temporary who,  whilst  admitting  his  lordship^s  genius,  felt 
an  abhorrence  of  his  life.  He  judged  literature  solely 
from  the  moral  point  of  view,  and  was  incapable  of 
understanding  any  other.  Of  fiction  he  had  read  very 
little  indeed,  for  it  was  not  regarded  with  favour  by  his 
parents.  Scott  was  hardly  more  than  a  name  to  him. 
And  though  he  avowed  acquaintance  with  one  or  two 
works  of  Dickens,  he  spoke  of  them  with  an  uneasy 
smile,  as  if  in  some  doubt  as  to  their  tendency.  With 
these  intellectual  characteristics,  Mr.  Spicer  naturally 
found  it  difficult  to  appreciate  the  attitude  of  his 
literary  friend,  a  young  man  whose  brain  thrilled  in 
response  to  modern  ideas,  and  who  regarded  himself  as 
the  destined  leader  of  a  new  school  of  fiction.  Not 
indiscreet,  Goldthorpe  soon  became  aware  that  he  had 
better  talk  as  little  as  possible  of  the  work  which 


is          THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

absorbed  his  energies.  He  had  enough  liberality  and 
sense  of  humour  to  understand  and  enjoy  his  landlord's 
conversation,  and  the  simple  goodness  of  the  man 
inspired  him  with  no  little  respect.  Thus  they  got 
along  together  remarkably  well.  Mr.  Spicer  never 
ceased  to  feel  himself  honoured  by  the  presence  under 
his  roof  of  one  who — as  he  was  wont  to  say — wielded 
the  pen.  The  tradition  of  Grub  Street  was  for  him  a 
living  fact.  He  thought  of  all  authors  as  struggling 
with  poverty,  and  continued  to  cite  eighteenth-century 
examples  by  way  of  encouraging  Goldthorpe  and  animat- 
ing his  zeal.  Whilst  the  young  man  was  at  work  Mr. 
Spicer  moved  about  the  house  with  soundless  footsteps. 
When  invited  into  his  tenant's  room  he  had  a  reverential 
demeanour,  and  the  sight  of  manuscript  on  the  bare  deal 
table  caused  him  to  subdue  his  voice. 

The  weeks  went  by,  and  Goldthorpe's  novel  steadily 
progressed.  In  London  he  had  only  two  or  three 
acquaintances,  and  from  them  he  held  aloof,  lest  neces- 
sity or  temptation  should  lead  to  his  spending  money 
which  he  could  not  spare.  The  few  letters  which  he 
received  were  addressed  to  a  post-office — impossible  to 
shock  the  nerves  of  a  postman  by  requesting  him  to 
deliver  correspondence  at  this  dead  house,  of  which  the 
front  door  had  not  been  opened  for  years.  The  weather 
was  perfect ;  a  great  deal  of  sunshine,  but  as  yet  no 
oppressive  heat,  even  in  the  chambers  under  the  roof. 
Towards  the  end  of  June  Mr.  Spicer  began  to  amuse 
himself  with  a  little  gardening.  He  had  discovered  in 
the  coal-hole  an  ancient  fork,  with  one  prong  broken 
and  the  others  rusting  away.  This  implement  served 
him  in  his  slow,  meditative  attack  on  that  part  of  the 
jungle  which  seemed  to  offer  least  resistance.  He  would 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  19 

work  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  then,  resting  on  his  fork, 
contemplate  the  tangled  mass  of  vegetation  which  he 
had  succeeded  in  tearing  up. 

*  Our  aim   should  be,'  he  said  gravely,  when  Gold- 
thorpe  came  to  observe  his  progress,  '  to  clear  the  soil 
round    about  those  vegetables  and  flowers  which  seem 
worth   preserving.     These  broad-beans,  for  instance — 
they  seem  to  be  a  very  fine  sort.     And  the  Jerusalem 
artichokes.     I've  been  making  inquiry  about  the  arti- 
chokes, and   I'm  told  they  are   not   ready  to   eat   till 
the  autumn.     The  first  frost  is  said  to  improve  them. 
They  're  fine  plants — very  fine  plants.' 

Already  the  garden  had  supplied  them  with  occasional 
food,  but  they  had  to  confess  that,  for  the  most  part, 
these  wild  vegetables  lacked  savour.  The  artichokes, 
now  shooting  up  into  a  leafy  grove,  were  the  great 
hope  of  the  future.  It  would  be  deplorable  to  quit  the 
house  before  this  tuber  came  to  maturity. 

*  The  worst  of  it  is,'  remarked  Mr.  Spicer  one  day, 
when  he  was  perspiring  freely,  '  that  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  how   different  it   would  be  if  this  garden  was 
really  my  own.     The  fact  is,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  I  can't 
put  much  heart  into  the  work ;  no,  I  can't.     The  more 
I  reflect,  the  more  indignant  I  become.     Really  now, 
Mr.   Goldthorpe,  speaking  as   an   intellectual   man,  as 
a  man  of  imagination,  could  anything  be  more  cruelly 
unjust  than    this  leasehold  system  ?     I   assure  you,  it 
keeps  me  awake  at  night ;  it  really  does.' 

The  tenor  of  his  conversation  proved  that  Mr.  Spicer 
had  no  intention  of  leaving  the  house  until  he  was 
legally  obliged  to  do  so.  More  than  once  he  had  an 
interview  with  his  late  uncle's  solicitor,  and  each  time 
he  came  back  with  melancholy  brow.  All  the  details  of 


20  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

the  story  were  now  familiar  to  him  ;  he  knew  all  about 
the  lawsuits  which  had  ruined  the  property.  Whenever 
he  spoke  of  the  ground-landlord,  known  to  him  only  by 
name,  it  was  with  a  severity  such  as  he  never  permitted 
himself  on  any  other  subject.  The  ground-landlord  was, 
to  his  mind,  an  embodiment  of  social  injustice. 

'  Never  in  my  life,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  did  I  grudge  any 
payment  of  money  as  I  grudge  the  ground-rent  of  these 
houses.  I  feel  it  as  robbery,  sir,  as  sheer  robbery, 
though  the  sum  is  so  small.  When,  in  my  ignorance, 
the  matter  was  first  explained  to  me,  I  wondered  why 
my  uncle  had  continued  to  pay  this  rent,  the  houses 
being  of  no  profit  to  him.  But  now  I  understand,  Mr. 
Goldthorpe  ;  the  sense  of  possession  is  very  sweet.  Pro- 
perty 's  property,  even  when  it 's  leasehold  and  in  ruins. 
I  grudge  the  ground-rent  bitterly,  but  I  feel,  sir,  that 
I  couldn't  bear  to  lose  my  houses  until  the  fatal 
moment,  when  lose  them  I  must.' 

In  August  the  thermometer  began  to  mark  high 
degrees.  Goldthorpe  found  it  necessary  to  dispense 
with  coat  and  waistcoat  when  he  was  working,  and  at 
times  a  treacherous  languor  whispered  to  him  of  the 
delights  of  idleness.  After  one  particularly  hot  day,  he 
and  his  landlord  smoked  together  in  the  dusking  garden, 
both  unusually  silent.  Mr.  Spicer's  eye  dwelt  upon  the 
great  heap  of  weeds  which  was  resulting  from  his  labour; 
an  odour  somewhat  too  poignant  arose  from  it  upon  the 
close  air.  Goldthorpe,  who  had  been  rather  headachy 
all  day,  was  trying  to  think  into  perfect  clearness  the 
last  chapters  of  his  book,  and  found  it  difficult. 

'  You  know,1  he  said  all  at  once,  with  an  impatient 
movement,  '  we  ought  to  be  at  the  seaside.' 

'The   seaside?'   echoed    his  companion,  in  surprise. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  21 

*  Ah,  it 's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  the  sea,  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe.  Why,  it  must  be — yes,  it  is  at  least  twenty 
years.' 

'Really?  I've  been  there  every  year  of  my  life  till 
this.  One  gets  into  the  way  of  thinking  of  luxuries  as 
necessities.  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  If  I  sell  my  book 
as  soon  as  it's  done,  we'll  have  a  few  days  somewhere 
on  the  south  coast  together.' 

Mr.  Spicer  betrayed  uneasiness. 

'  I  should  like  it  much,'  he  murmured,  *  but  I  fear, 
Mr.  Goldthorpe,  I  greatly  fear  I  can't  afford  it.' 

*  Oh,  but  I  mean  that  you  shall  go  with  me  as  my 
guest !     But  for  you,  Mr.  Spicer,  I  might  never  have 
got  my  book  written  at  all.' 

*  I  feel  it  an  honour,   sir,  I   assure   you,  to  have  a 
literary  man  in  my  house,'  was  the  genial  reply.     '  And 
you  think  the  work  will  soon  be  finished,  sir  ? ' 

Mr.  Spicer  always  spoke  of  his  tenant's  novel  as 
'the  work' — which  on  his  lips  had  a  very  large  and 
respectful  sound. 

*  About  a  fortnight  more,'  answered  Goldthorpe  with 
grave  intensity. 

The  heat  continued.  As  he  lay  awake  before  getting 
up,  eager  to  finish  his  book,  yet  dreading  the  torrid 
temperature  of  his  room,  which  made  the  brain  sluggish 
and  the  hand  slow,  Goldthorpe  saw  how  two  or  three 
energetic  spiders  had  begun  to  spin  webs  once  more  at 
the  corners  of  the  ceiling ;  now  and  then  he  heard  the 
long  buzzing  of  a  fly  entangled  in  one  of  these  webs. 
The  same  thing  was  happening  in  Mr.  Spicer's  chamber. 
It  did  not  seem  worth  while  to  brush  the  new  webs 
away. 

*  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  sir,'  said  the  landlord, 


22  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

'it's  the  spiders  who  are  the  real  owners  of  these 
houses.  When  I  go  away,  they  '11  be  pulled  down ; 
they  're  not  fit  for  human  habitation.  Only  the  spiders 
are  really  at  home  here,  and  the  fact  is,  sir,  I  don't  feel 
I  have  the  right  to  disturb  them.  As  a  man  of 
imagination,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  you  11  understand  my 
thoughts  ! ' 

Only  with  a  great  effort  was  the  novel  finished. 
Goldthorpe  had  lost  his  appetite  (not,  perhaps,  alto- 
gether a  disadvantage),  and  he  could  not  sleep ;  a  slight 
fever  seemed  to  be  constantly  upon  him.  But  this 
work  was  a  question  of  life  and  death  to  him,  and  he 
brought  it  to  an  end  only  a  few  days  after  the  term  he 
had  set  himself.  The  complete  manuscript  was  exhibited 
to  Mr.  Spicer,  who  expressed  his  profound  sense  of  the 
privilege.  Then,  without  delay,  Goldthorpe  took  it  to 
the  publishing  house  in  which  he  had  most  hope. 

The  young  author  could  now  do  nothing  but  wait, 
and,  under  the  circumstances,  waiting  meant  torture. 
His  money  was  all  but  exhausted ;  if  he  could  not 
speedily  sell  the  book,  his  position  would  be  that  of 
a  mere  pauper.  Supported  thus  long  by  the  artist's 
enthusiasm,  he  fell  into  despondency,  saw  the  dark  side 
of  things.  To  be  sure,  his  mother  (a  widow  in  narrow 
circumstances)  had  written  pressing  him  to  take  a  holi- 
day *  at  home,'  but  he  dreaded  the  thought  of  going 
penniless  to  his  mother's  house,  and  there,  perchance, 
receiving  bad  news  about  his  book.  An  ugly  feature  of 
the  situation  was  that  he  continued  to  feel  anything  but 
well ;  indeed,  he  felt  sure  that  he  was  getting  worse. 
At  night  he  suffered  severely ;  sleep  had  almost  forsaken 
him.  Hour  after  hour  he  lay  listening  to  mysterious 
noises,  strange  crackings  and  creakings  through  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  23 

desolate  house ;  sometimes  he  imagined  the  sound  of 
footsteps  in  the  bare  rooms  below ;  even  hushed  voices, 
from  he  knew  not  where,  chilled  his  blood  at  midnight. 
Since  crumbs  had  begun  to  lie  about,  mice  were 
common ;  they  scampered  as  if  in  revelry  above  the 
ceiling,  and  under  the  floor,  and  within  the  walls. 
Goldthorpe  began  to  dislike  this  strange  abode.  He 
felt  that  under  any  circumstances  it  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  dwell  here  much  longer. 

When  his  last  coin  was  spent,  and  he  had  no  choice 
but  to  pawn  or  sell  something  for  a  few  days'  subsist- 
ence, the  manuscript  came  back  upon  his  hands.  It  had 
been  judged — declined. 

That  morning  he  felt  seriously  unwell.  After  making 
known  the  catastrophe  to  Mr.  Spicer — who  was  stricken 
voiceless — he  stood  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  said 
with  quiet  resolve  : 

'  It's  all  up.  I  've  no  money,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
going  to  have  an  illness.  I  must  say  good-bye  to  you, 
old  friend.1 

*  Mr.  Goldthorpe  ! '  exclaimed  the  other  solemnly  ;  *  I 
entreat  you,  sir,  to  do  nothing  rash  !  Take  heart,  sir  ! 
Think  of  Samuel  Johnson,  think  of  Goldsmith ' 

'The  extent  of  my  rashness,  Mr.  Spicer,  will  be  to 
raise  enough  money  on  my  watch  to  get  down  into 
Derbyshire.  I  must  go  home.  If  I  don't,  you  '11  have 
the  pleasant  job  of  taking  me  to  a  hospital.' 

Mr.  Spicer  insisted  on  lending  him  the  small  sum  he 
needed.  An  hour  or  two  later  they  were  at  St.  Pancras 
Station,  and  before  sunset  Goldthorpe  had  found  har- 
bourage under  his  mother's  roof.  There  he  lay  ill  for 
more  than  a  month,  and  convalescent  for  as  long  again. 
His  doctor  declared  that  he  must  have  been  living  in  some 


24.  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

very  unhealthy  place,  but  the  young  man  preferred  to 
explain  his  illness  by  overwork.  It  seemed  to  him  sheer 
ingratitude  to  throw  blame  on  Mr.  Spicer's  house,  where 
he  had  been  so  contented  and  worked  so  well  until  the 
hot  days  of  latter  August.  Mr.  Spicer  himself  wrote 
kind  and  odd  little  letters,  giving  an  account  of  the 
garden,  and  earnestly  hoping  that  his  literary  friend 
would  be  back  in  London  to  taste  the  Jerusalem  arti- 
chokes. But  Christmas  came  and  went,  and  Goldthorpe 
was  still  at  his  mother's  house. 

Meanwhile  the  manuscript  had  gone  from  publisher 
to  publisher,  and  at  length,  on  a  day  in  January — date 
ever  memorable  in  (roldthorpe"s  life — there  arrived  a 
short  letter  in  which  a  certain  firm  dryly  intimated  their 
approval  of  the  story  offered  them,  and  their  willingness 
to  purchase  the  copyright  for  a  sum  of  fifty  pounds. 
The  next  morning  the  triumphant  author  travelled  to 
London.  For  two  or  three  days  a  violent  gale  had 
been  blowing,  with  much  damage  throughout  the 
country  ;  on  his  journey  Goldthorpe  saw  many  great 
trees  lying  prostrate,  beaten,  as  though  scornfully,  by 
the  cold  rain  which  now  descended  in  torrents.  Arrived 
in  town,  he  went  to  the  house  where  he  had  lodged  in 
the  time  of  comparative  prosperity,  and  there  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  his  old  rooms  vacant.  On  the  morrow 
he  called  upon  the  gracious  publishers,  and  after  that, 
under  a  sky  now  become  more  gentle,  he  took  his  way 
towards  the  abode  of  Mr.  Spicer. 

Eager  to  communicate  the  joyous  news,  glad  in  the 
prospect  of  seeing  his  simple-hearted  friend,  he  went  at 
a  great  pace  up  the  ascending  road.  There  were  the 
three  houses,  looking  drearier  than  ever  in  a  faint  gleam 
of  winter  sunshine.  There  were  his  old  windows.  But 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  25 

— what  had  happened  to  the  roof?  He  stood  in 
astonishment  and  apprehension,  for,  just  above  the  room 
where  he  had  dwelt,  the  roof  was  an  utter  wreck,  show- 
ing a  great  hole,  as  if  something  had  fallen  upon  it  with 
crushing  weight.  As  indeed  was  the  case ;  evidently 
the  chimney-stack  had  come  down,  and  doubtless  in  the 
recent  gale.  Seized  with  anxiety  on  Mr.  Spicer's 
account,  he  ran  round  to  the  back  of  the  garden  and 
tried  the  door  ;  but  it  was  locked  as  usual.  He  strained 
to  peer  over  the  garden  wall,  but  could  discover  nothing 
that  threw  light  on  his  friend's  fate  ;  he  noticed,  however, 
a  great  grove  of  dead,  brown  artichoke  stems,  seven  or 
eight  feet  high.  Looking  up  at  the  back  windows,  he 
shouted  Mr.  Spicer's  name ;  it  was  useless.  Then,  in 
serious  alarm,  he  betook  himself  to  the  house  on  the  other 
side  of  the  passage,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  asked  of 
the  woman  who  presented  herself  whether  anything  was 
known  of  a  gentleman  who  dwelt  where  the  chimney- 
stack  had  just  fallen.  News  was  at  once  forthcoming  ; 
the  event  had  obviously  caused  no  small  local  excite- 
ment. It  was  two  days  since  the  falling  of  the  chimney, 
which  happened  towards  evening,  when  the  gale  blew  its 
hardest.  Mr.  Spicer  was  at  that  moment  sitting  before 
the  fire,  and  only  by  a  miracle  had  he  escaped  destruc- 
tion, for  an  immense  weight  of  material  came  down 
through  the  rotten  roof,  and  even  broke  a  good  deal  of 
the  flooring.  Had  the  occupant  been  anywhere  but 
close  by  the  fireplace,  he  must  have  been  crushed  to  a 
mummy ;  as  it  was,  only  a  few  bricks  struck  him, 
inflicting  severe  bruises  on  back  and  arms.  But  the 
shock  had  been  serious.  When  his  shouts  from  the 
window  at  length  attracted  attention  and  brought  help, 
the  poor  man  had  to  be  carried  downstairs,  and  in 


26  THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS 

a  thoroughly  helpless  state  was  removed  to  the  nearest 
hospital. 

'  Which  room  was  he  in  ? '  inquired  Goldthorpe. 
*  Back  or  front  ? ' 

4  In  the  front  room.     The  back  wasn't  touched.' 

Musing  on  Mr.  Spicer's  bad  luck — for  it  seemed  as  if 
he  had  changed  from  the  back  to  the  front  room  just  in 
order  that  the  chimney  might  fall  on  him — Goldthorpe 
hastened  away  to  the  hospital.  He  could  not  be 
admitted  to-day,  but  heard  that  his  friend  was  doing 
very  well ;  on  the  morrow  he  would  be  allowed  to  see 
him. 

So  at  the  visitors'  hour  Goldthorpe  returned.  Enter- 
ing the  long  accident  ward,  he  searched  anxiously  for 
the  familiar  face,  and  caught  sight  of  it  just  as  it  began 
to  beam  recognition.  Mr.  Spicer  was  sitting  up  in  bed  ; 
he  looked  pale  and  meagre,  but  not  seriously  ill ;  his 
voice  quivered  with  delight  as  he  greeted  the  young  man. 

'  I  heard  of  your  inquiring  for  me  yesterday,  Mr. 
Goldthorpe,  and  I've  hardly  been  able  to  live  for  im- 
patience to  see  you.  How  are  you,  sir  ?  How  are 
you  ?  And  what  news  about  the  work,  sir  ? ' 

'  We  '11  talk  about  that  presently,  Mr.  Spicer.  Tell 
me  all  about  your  accident.  How  came  you  to  be  in 
the  front  room  ? ' 

*  Ah,  sir,'  replied  the  patient,  with  a  little  shake  of 
the  head,  '  that  indeed  was  singular.  Only  a  few  days 
before,  I  had  made  a  removal  from  my  room  into  yours. 
I  call  it  yours,  sir,  for  I  always  thought  of  it  as  yours  ; 
but  thank  heaven  you  were  not  there.  Only  a  few  days 
before.  I  took  that  step,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  for  two 
reasons  :  first,  because  water  was  coming  through  the 
roof  at  the  back  in  rather  unpleasant  quantities,  andi 


THE  HOUSE  OF  COBWEBS  27 

secondly,  because  I  hoped  to  get  a  little  morning  sun 
in  the  front.  The  fact  is,  sir,  my  room  had  been  just 
a  little  depressing.  Ah,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  if  you  knew 
how  I  have  missed  you,  sir  !  But  the  work — what  news 
of  the  work  ? ' 

Smiling  as  though  carelessly,  the  author  made  known 
his  good  fortune.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Mr.  Spicer 
could  talk  of  nothing  else. 

*  This  has  completed  my  cure ! '  he  kept  repeating. 
*  The  work  was  composed  under  my  roof,  my  own  roof, 
sir  !     Did  I  not  tell  you  to  take  heart  ? ' 

'  And  where  are  you  going  to  live  ? '  asked  Gold- 
thorpe presently.  '  You  can^t  go  back  to  the  old 
house.1 

*  Alas  !  no,  sir.     All  my  life  I  have  dreamt  of  the  joy 
of  owning  a  house.     You    know   how   the    dream   was 
realised,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  and  you  see  what  has  come  of 
it  at  last.     Probably  it  is  a  chastisement  for  overween- 
ing desires,  sir.      I  should  have  remembered  my  position, 
and  kept  my  wishes  within   bounds.      But,   Mr.    Gold- 
thorpe, I  shall  continue  to  cultivate  the  garden,  sir.     I 
shall  put  in  spring  lettuces,  and  radishes,  and   mustard 
and  cress.     The  property  is  mine  till  midsummer   day. 
You  shall  eat  a  lettuce  of  my  growing,  Mr.  Goldthorpe ; 
I  am  bent  on  that.     And  how  I  grieve  that  you  were 
not  with  me  at  the  time  of  the  artichokes — just  at  the 
moment  when  they  were  touched  by  the  first  frost ! ' 

*  Ah  !     They  were  really  good,  Mr.  Spicer  ? ' 

'Sir,  they  seemed  good  to  me,  very  good.  Just  at 
the  moment  of  the  first  frost ! ' 


A  CAPITALIST 

AMONG  the  men  whom  I  saw  occasionally  at  the  little 
club  in  Mortimer  Street, — and  nowhere  else, — was  one 
who  drew  my  attention  before  I  had  learnt  his  name  or 
knew  anything  about  him.  Of  middle  age,  in  the  full- 
ness of  health  and  vigour,  but  slenderly  built ;  his  face 
rather  shrewd  than  intellectual,  interesting  rather  than 
pleasing ;  always  dressed  as  the  season's  mode  dictated, 
but  without  dandyism  ;  assuredly  he  belonged  to  the 
money-spending,  and  probably  to  the  money-getting, 
world.  At  first  sight  of  him  I  remember  resenting  his 
cap-a-pie  perfection ;  it  struck  me  as  bad  form — here 
in  Mortimer  Street,  among  fellows  of  the  pen  and  the 
palette. 

'  Oh,'  said  Harvey  Munden, '  he 's  afraid  of  being  taken 
for  one  of  us.  He  buys  pictures.  Not  a  bad  sort,  I 
believe,  if  it  weren't  for  his  snobbishness.' 

'  His  name  ? ' 

'Ireton.  Has  a  house  in  Fitzjohn  Avenue,  and  a 
high-trotting  wife.' 

Six  months  later  I  recalled  this  description  of  Mrs. 
Ireton.  She  was  the  talk  of  the  town,  the  heroine  of 
the  newest  divorce  case.  By  that  time  I  had  got  to 
know  her  husband  ;  perhaps  once  a  fortnight  we  chatted 
at  the  club,  and  I  found  him  an  agreeable  acquaintance. 
Before  the  Divorce  Court  flashed  a  light  of  scandal  upon 


A  CAPITALIST  29 

his  home,  I  felt  that  there  was  more  in  him  than  could 
be  discovered  in  casual  gossip ;  I  wished  to  know  him 
better.  Something  of  shyness  marked  his  manner,  and 
like  all  shy  men  he  sometimes  appeared  arrogant.  He 
had  a  habit  of  twisting  his  moustache  nervously  and  of 
throwing  quick  glances  in  every  direction  as  he  talked ; 
if  he  found  some  one^s  eye  upon  him,  he  pulled  himself 
together  and  sat  for  a  moment  as  if  before  a  photo- 
grapher. One  easily  perceived  that  he  was  not  a  man 
of  liberal  education  ;  he  had  rather  too  much  of  the 
*  society '  accent ;  his  pronunciation  of  foreign  names 
told  a  tale.  But  I  thought  him  good-hearted,  and 
when  the  penny-a-liners  began  to  busy  themselves  with 
his  affairs,  I  felt  sorry  for  him. 

Nothing  to  his  dishonour  came  out  in  the  trial.  He 
and  his  interesting  spouse  had  evidently  lived  a  cat-and- 
dog  life  throughout  the  three  years  of  their  marriage, 
but  the  countercharges  brought  against  him  broke  down 
completely.  It  was  abundantly  proved  that  he  had  not 
kept  a  harem  somewhere  near  Leicester  Square ;  that 
he  had  not  thrown  a  decanter  at  Mrs.  Ireton.  She,  on 
the  other  hand,  left  the  court  with  tattered  reputation. 
Ireton  got  his  release,  and  the  weekly  papers  applauded. 

But  in  Mortimer  Street  we  saw  him  no  more.  Some 
one  said  that  he  had  gone  to  live  in  Paris ;  some  one 
else  reported  that  he  had  purchased  an  estate  in  Bucks. 
Presently  he  was  forgotten. 

Some  three  years  went  by,  and  I  was  spending  the 
autumn  at  a  village  by  the  New  Forest.  One  day  I  came 
upon  a  man  kneeling  under  a  hedge,  examining  some 
object  on  the  ground, — fern  or  flower,  or  perhaps  insect. 
His  costume  showed  that  he  was  no  native  of  the  locality  ; 
I  took  him  for  a  stray  townsman,  probably  a  naturalist. 


30  A  CAPITALIST 

He  wore  a  straw  hat  and  a  rough  summer  suit ;  a  wallet 
hung  from  his  shoulder.  The  sound  of  my  steps  on 
crackling  wood  caused  him  to  turn  and  look  at  me. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation  I  recognised  Ireton. 

And  he  knew  me  ;  he  smiled,  as  I  had  often  seen  him 
smile,  with  a  sort  of  embarrassment.  We  greeted  each 
other. 

*  Look  here,1  he  said  at  once,  when  the  handshaking 
was  over,  '  can  you  tell  me  what  this  little  flower  is  ? ' 

I  stooped,  but  was  unable  to  give  him  the  information 
he  desired. 

*  You  dent  go  in  for  that  kind  of  thing  ? ' 
« Well,  no.1 

'  I  'm  having  a  turn  at  it.  I  want  to  know  the  flowers 
and  ferns.  I  have  a  book  at  my  lodgings,  and  I  look 
the  things  up  when  I  get  home.1 

His  wallet  contained  a  number  of  specimens;  he 
plucked  up  the  little  plant  by  the  root,  and  stowed  it 
away.  I  watched  him  with  curiosity.  Perhaps  I  had 
seen  only  his  public  side ;  perhaps  even  then  he  was 
capable  of  dressing  roughly,  and  of  rambling  for  his 
pleasure  among  fields  and  wood.  But  such  a  possibility 
had  never  occurred  to  me.  I  wondered  whether  his  bril- 
liant wife  had  given  him  a  disgust  for  the  ways  of  town. 
If  so,  he  was  a  more  interesting  man  than  I  had  supposed. 

'  Where  are  you  staying  ? 1  he  asked,  after  a  glance 
this  way  and  that. 

I  named  the  village,  two  miles  away. 

« Working  ? ' 

*  Idling  merely.' 

In  a  few  minutes  he  overcame  his  reserve  and  began 
to  talk  of  the  things  which  he  knew  interested  me.  We 
discussed  the  books  of  the  past  season,  the  exhibitions, 


A  CAPITALIST  31 

the  new  men  in  letters  and  art.  Ireton  said  that  he 
had  been  living  at  a  wayside  inn  for  about  a  week ;  he 
thought  of  moving  on,  and,  as  I  had  nothing  to  do, 
suppose  he  came  over  for  a  few  days  to  the  village  where 
I  was  camped  ?  I  welcomed  the  proposal. 

'  There  "s  an  inn,  I  dare  say  ?  I  like  the  little  inns 
in  this  part  of  the  country.  Dirty,  of  course,  and  the 
cooking  hideous  ;  but  it 's  pleasant  for  a  change.  I  like 
to  be  awoke  by  the  cock  crowing,  and  to  see  the  grubby 
little  window  when  I  open  my  eyes.1 

I  began  to  suspect  that  he  had  come  down  in  the 
world.  Could  his  prosperity  have  been  due  to  Mrs. 
Ireton  ?  Had  she  carried  off  the  money  ?  He  might 
affect  a  liking  for  simple  things  when  grandeur  was  no 
longer  in  his  reach.  Yet  I  remembered  that  he  had 
undoubtedly  been  botanising  before  he  knew  of  my 
approach,  and  such  a  form  of  pastime  seemed  to  prove 
him  sincere. 

By  chance  I  witnessed  his  arrival  the  next  morning. 
He  drove  up  in  a  farmer's  trap,  his  luggage  a  couple  of 
large  Gladstone-bags.  That  day  and  the  next  we  spent 
many  hours  together.  His  vanity,  though  not  outgrown, 
was  in  abeyance ;  he  talked  with  easy  frankness,  yet 
never  of  what  I  much  desired  to  know,  his  own  history 
and  present  position.  It  was  his  intellect  that  he  re- 
vealed to  me.  I  gathered  that  he  had  given  much  time 
to  study  during  the  past  three  years,  and  incidentally  it 
came  out  that  he  had  been  living  abroad ;  his  improved 
pronunciation  of  the  names  of  French  artists  was  very 
noticeable.  At  his  age — not  less  than  forty-five — this 
advance  argued  no  common  mental  resources.  Whether 
he  had  suffered  much,  I  could  not  determine ;  at  present 
he  seemed  light-hearted  enough. 


32  A  CAPITALIST 

Certainly  there  was  no  affectation  in  his  pursuit  of 
botany ;  again  and  again  I  saw  him  glow  with  genuine 
delight  when  he  had  identified  a  plant.  After  all,  this 
might  be  in  keeping  with  his  character,  for  even  in  the 
old  days  he  had  never  exhibited — at  all  events  to  me — 
a  taste  for  the  ignobler  luxuries,  and  he  had  seemed 
to  me  a  very  clean-minded  man.  I  never  knew  any  one 
who  refrained  so  absolutely  from  allusion,  good  or  bad, 
to  his  friends  or  acquaintances.  He  might  have  stood 
utterly  alone  in  the  world,  a  simple  spectator  of 
civilisation. 

At  length  I  ventured  upon  a  question. 

4  You  never  see  any  of  the  Mortimer  Street  men  ? ' 

'  No,'  he  answered  carelessly, '  I  haven't  come  in  their 
way  lately,  somehow.' 

That  evening  our  ramble  led  us  into  an  enclosure 
where  game  was  preserved.  We  had  lost  our  way,  and 
Ireton,  scornful  of  objections,  struck  across  country, 
making  for  a  small  plantation  which  he  thought  he 
remembered.  Here,  among  the  trees,  we  were  suddenly 
face  to  face  with  an  old  gentleman  of  distinguished  bear- 
ing, who  regarded  us  sternly. 

'  Is  it  necessary,'  he  said,  *  to  tell  you  that  you  are 
trespassing  ? ' 

The  tone  was  severe,  but  not  offensive.  I  saw  my 
companion  draw  himself  to  his  full  height. 

'  Not  at  all  necessary,'  he  answered,  in  a  voice  that 
surprised  me,  it  was  so  nearly  insolent.  *  We  are  making 
our  way  to  the  road  as  quickly  as  possible.' 

'  Then  be  so  good  as  to  take  the  turning  to  the  right 
when  you  reach  the  field,'  said  our  admonisher  coldly. 
And  he  turned  his  back  upon  us. 

I  looked  at  Ireton.       To  my  astonishment  he  was 


A  CAPITALIST  33 

pallid,  the  lines  of  his  countenance  indicating  fiercest 
wrath.  He  marched  on  in  silence  till  we  had  reached 
the  field. 

'  The  fellow  took  us  for  cheap-trippers,  I  suppose,' 
then  burst  from  his  lips. 

*  Not  very  likely.' 

'  Then  why  the  devil  did  he  speak  like  that  ? ' 
The  grave  reproof  had  exasperated  him ;  he  was 
flushed  and  his  hands  trembled.  I  observed  him  with 
the  utmost  interest,  and  it  became  clear  from  the  angry 
words  he  poured  forth  that  he  could  not  endure  to  be 
supposed  anything  but  a  gentleman  at  large.  Here 
was  the  old  characteristic ;  it  had  merely  been  dormant. 
I  tried  to  laugh  him  out  of  his  irritation,  but  soon  saw 
that  the  attempt  was  dangerous.  On  the  way  home  he 
talked  very  little ;  the  encounter  in  the  wood  had 
thoroughly  upset  him. 

Next  morning  he  came  into  my  room  with  a  laugh 
that  I  did  not  like ;  he  seated  himself  stiffly,  looked  at 
me  from  beneath  his  knitted  brows,  and  said  in  an 
aggressive  tone : 

*  I  have  got  to  know  all  about  that  impudent  old 
fellow.' 

« Indeed  ?     Who  is  he  ? ' 

'  A  poverty-stricken  squire,  with  an  old  house  and 
a  few  acres — the  remnants  of  a  large  estate  gambled 
away  by  his  father.  I  know  him  by  name,  and  I  'm 
quite  sure  that  he  knows  me.  If  I  had  offered  him  my 
card,  as  I  thought  of  doing,  I  dare  say  his  tone  would 
have  changed.' 

This  pettishness  amused  me  so  much  that  I  pretended 
tc  be  a  little  sore  myself. 

'  His  poverty,  I  suppose,  has  spoilt  his  temper.' 

C 


34  A  CAPITALIST 

4  No  doubt, — I  can  understand  that,'  he  added,  with 
a  smile.  '  But  I  don't  allow  people  to  treat  me  like  a 
tramp.  I  shall  go  up  and  see  him  this  afternoon.' 

*  And  insist  on  an  apology  ? ' 

*  Oh,  there  '11  be  no  need  of  insisting.     The  fellow  has 
several  unmarried  daughters.' 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  companion  was  bent  on 
showing  his  worst  side.  I  returned  to  my  old  thoughts 
of  him  ;  he  was  snobbish,  insolent,  generally  detestable ; 
but  a  man  to  be  studied,  and  I  let  him  talk  as  he 
would. 

The  reduced  squire  was  Mr.  Humphrey  Armitage,  of 
Brackley  Hall.  For  my  own  part,  the  demeanour  of 
this  gentleman  had  seemed  perfectly  adapted  to  the 
occasion ;  we  were  strangers  plunging  through  his  pre- 
serves, and  his  tone  to  us  had  nothing  improper ;  it  was 
we  who  owed  an  apology.  In  point  of  breeding,  I  felt 
sure  that  Ireton  could  not  compare  with  Mr.  Armitage 
for  a  moment,  and  it  seemed  to  me  vastly  improbable 
that  the  invader  of  Brackley  Hall  would  meet  with  the 
kind  of  reception  he  anticipated. 

I  saw  Ireton  when  he  set  out  to  pay  his  call.  His 
Gladstone-bags  had  provided  him  with  the  costume  of 
Piccadilly ;  from  shining  hat  to  patent-leather  shoes, 
he  was  immaculate.  Seeing  that  he  had  to  walk  more 
than  a  mile,  that  the  month  was  September,  and  that 
he  could  not  pretend  to  have  come  straight  from  town, 
this  apparel  struck  me  as  not  a  little  inappropriate ;  I 
could  only  suppose  that  the  man  had  no  social  tact. 

At  seven  in  the  evening  he  again  sought  me.  His 
urban  glories  were  exchanged  for  the  ordinary  attire, 
but  I  at  once  read  in  his  face  that  he  had  suffered  no 
humiliation, 


A  CAPITALIST  35 

'  Come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  inn,'  he  exclaimed 
cordially ;  '  if  one  may  use  such  a  word  as  dine  under 
the  circumstances.' 

'  With  pleasure.' 

*  To-morrow  I  dine  with  the  Armitages.' 

He  regarded  me  with  an  air  of  infinite  satisfaction. 
Surprised,  I  held  my  peace.  '  It  was  as  I  foresaw.  The 
old  fellow  welcomed  me  with  open  arms.  His  daughters 
gave  me  tea.  I  had  really  a  very  pleasant  time.' 

I  mused  and  wondered. 

'  You  didn't  expect  it ;  I  can  see  that.' 

'You  told  me  that  Mr.  Armitage  would  recognise 
your  name,'  I  answered  evasively. 

*  Precisely.     Not  long  ago  I  gave  him,  through  an 
agent,  a  very  handsome  price  for  some  pictures  he  had 
to  sell.' 

Again  he  looked  at  me,  watching  the  effect  of  his 
words. 

*  Of  course,'  he  continued,  *  there  were  ample  apologies 
for  his  treatment  of  us  yesterday.     By  the  bye,  I  take  it 
for  granted  you  don't  carry  a  dress-suit  in  your  bag  ? ' 

*  Heaven  forbid  ! ' 

*  To  be  sure — pray  don't  misunderstand  me.     I  meant 
that  you  had  expressly  told  me  of  your  avoidance  of  all 
such   formalities.     Therefore  you  will   be   glad  that  I 
excused  you  from  dining  at  the  Hall.' 

For  a  moment  I  felt  uncomfortable,  but  after  all  I 
was  glad  not  to  have  the  trouble  of  refusing  on  my  own 
account. 

*  Thanks,'  I  said,  *  you  did  the  right  thing.' 

We  walked  over  to  the  inn,  and  sat  down  at  a  rude 
but  not  unsatisfying  table.  After  dinner,  Ireton  pro- 
posed that  we  should  smoke  in  the  garden.  *  It 's  quiet, 


36  A  CAPITALIST 

and  we  can  talk.'  The  sun  had  just  set ;  the  sky  was 
magnificent  with  afterglow.  Ireton's  hint  about  privacy 
led  me  to  hope  that  he  was  going  to  talk  more  con- 
fidentially than  hitherto,  and  I  soon  found  that  I  was 
not  mistaken. 

*  Do  you  know,1  he  began,  calling  me  by  my  name,  *  I 
fancy  you  have  been  criticising   me — yes,  I   know  you 
have.     You  think  I  made  an  ass  of  myself  about  that 
affair  in    the   wood.     Well,   I   have  no  doubt   I   did. 
Now  that  it  has  turned  out  pleasantly,  I  can  see  and 
admit  that  there  was  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about.' 

I  smiled. 

4  Very  well.  Now,  you  're  a  writer.  You  like  to  get 
at  the  souls  of  men.  Suppose  I  show  you  a  bit  of 
mine.' 

He  had  drunk  freely  of  the  potent  ale,  and  was  now 
sipping  a  strong  tumbler  of  hot  whisky.  Possibly  this 
accounted  in  some  measure  for  his  communicativeness. 

'  Up  to  the  age  of  five-and-twenty  I  was  clerk  in  a 
drug  warehouse.  To  this  day  even  the  faintest  smell  of 
drugs  makes  my  heart  sink.  If  I  can  help  it,  I  never 
go  into  a  chemist's  shop.  I  was  getting  a  pound  a 
week,  and  I  not  only  lived  on  it,  but  kept  up  a  decent 
appearance.  I  always  had  a  good  suit  of  clothes  for 
Sundays  and  holidays — made  at  a  tailor's  in  Holborn. 
Since  he  disappeared  I  've  never  been  able  to  find  any  one 
who  fitted  me  so  well.  I  paid  six-and-six  a  week  for  a 
top  bedroom  in  a  street  near  Gray's  Inn  Road.  Did 
you  suppose  I  had  gone  through  the  mill  ? ' 

I  made  no  answer,  and,  after  looking  at  me  for  a 
moment,  Ireton  resumed  : 

*  Those  were  damned  days  !      It  wasn't  the  want  of 
good  food  and  good  lodgings  that  troubled  me  most, — 


A  CAPITALIST  37 

but  the  feeling  that  I  was  everybody's  inferior.  There 's 
no  need  to  tell  you  how  I  was  brought  up  ;  I  was  led  to 
expect  better  things,  that 's  enough.  I  never  got  used 
to  being  ordered  about.  When  I  was  told  to  do  this  or 
that,  I  answered  with  a  silent  curse, — and  I  wonder  it 
didn't  come  out  sometimes.  That's  my  nature.  If  I 
had  been  born  the  son  of  a  duke,  I  couldn't  have 
resented  a  subordinate  position  more  fiercely  than  I  did. 
And  I  used  to  rack  my  brain  with  schemes  for  getting 
out  of  it.  Many  a  night  I  have  lain  awake  for  hours, 
trying  to  hit  on  some  way  of  earning  my  living  in- 
dependently. I  planned  elaborate  forgeries.  I  read 
criminal  cases  in  the  newspapers  to  get  a  hint  that  I 
might  work  upon.  Well,  that  only  means  that  I  had 
exhausted  all  the  honest  attempts,  and  found  them  all 
no  good.  I  was  in  despair,  that 's  all.' 

He  finished  his  whisky  and  shouted  to  the  landlord, 
who  presently  brought  him  another  glass. 

*  What 's  that  bird  making  the  strange  noise  ? ' 

*  A  night-jar,  I  think.' 

*  Nice  to  be  sitting  here,  isn't  it  ?     I  had  rather  be 
here  than  in  the  swellest  London  club.     Well,  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  how  I  got  out  of  that  beastly  life. 
You  know,  I  'm  really  a  very  quiet  fellow.     I  like  simple 
things ;  but  all  my  life,  till  just  lately,  I  never  had  a 
chance  of  enjoying  them ;   of  living  as   I   chose.     The 
one  thing  I  can't   stand   is   to  feel  that  I  am  looked 
down  upon.     That  makes  a  madman  of  me.' 

He  drank,  and  struck  a  match  to  relight  his  pipe. 

*  One  Saturday  afternoon  I  went  to  an  exhibition  in 
Coventry    Street.     The    pictures   were    for    sale,    and 
admission  was  free.     I  have  always  been  fond  of  water- 
colours;  at  that  time  it  was  one  of  my  ambitions  to 


38  A  CAPITALIST 

possess  a  really  good  bit  of  landscape  in  water-colour, 
but,  of  course,  I  knew  that  the  prices  were  beyond  me. 
Well,  I  walked  through  the  gallery,  and  there  was  one 
thing  that  caught  my  fancy;  I  kept  going  back  to  it 
again  and  again.  It  was  a  bit  of  sea-coast  by  Ewart 
Merry, — do  you  know  him  ?  He  died  years  ago ;  his 
pictures  fetch  a  fairly  good  price  now.  As  I  was 
looking  at  it,  the  fellow  who  managed  the  show  came 
up  with  a  man  and  woman  to  talk  about  another 
picture  near  me ;  he  tried  his  hardest  to  persuade  them 
to  buy,  but  they  wouldn't,  and  I  dare  say  it  disturbed 
his  temper.  Seeing  him  stand  there  alone,  I  stepped 
up  to  him,  and  asked  the  price  of  the  water-colour.  He 
just  gave  a  look  at  me,  and  said,  "Too  much  money 
for  you." 

'  Now,  you  must  remember  that  I  was  in  my  best 
clothes,  and  I  certainly  didn't  look  like  >;  renniless  clerk. 
If  the  fellow  had  struck  a  blow  at  me,  I  couldn't  have 
been  more  astonished  than  I  was  by  that  answer. 
Astonishment  was  the  first  feeling,  and  it  lasted  about 
a  second ;  then  my  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  began 
to  beat  violently,  and  for  a  moment  I  couldn't  see 
anything,  and  I  felt  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  I  can 
remember  this  as  well  as  if  it  happened  yesterday ;  I 
must  have  gone  through  it  in  memory  many  thousands 
of  times.' 

I  observed  his  face,  and  saw  that  even  now  he  suffered 
from  the  recollection. 

*  When  he  had  spoken,  the  blackguard  turned  away. 
I  couldn't  move,  and  the  wonder  is  that  I  didn't  swallow 
his  insult,  and  sneak  out  of  the  place, — I  was  so  accus- 
tomed, you  see,  to  repress  myself.  But  of  a  sudden 
something  took  hold  of  me,  and  pushed  me  forward, — it 


A  CAPITALIST  39 

really  didn't  seem  to  be  my  own  will.  I  said,  "  Wait  a 
minute " ;  and  the  man  turned  round.  Then  I  stood 
looking  him  in  the  eyes.  "  Are  you  here,"  I  said,  "  to 
sell  pictures,  or  to  insult  people  who  come  to  buy  ? " 
I  must  have  spoken  in  a  voice  he  didn't  expect ;  he 
couldn't  answer,  and  stared  at  me.  "  I  asked  you  the 
price  of  that  water-colour,  and  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  answer  me  civilly."  Those  were  my  very  words. 
They  came  without  thinking,  and  afterwards  I  felt 
satisfied  with  myself  when  I  remembered  them.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  unnatural  if  I  had  sworn  at  him, 
but  this  was  the  turning-point  of  my  life,  and  I  behaved 
in  a  way  that  surprised  myself.  At  last  he  replied, 
"  The  price  is  forty  guineas,"  and  he  was  going  off  again, 
but  I  stopped  him.  "  I  will  buy  it.  Take  my  name 
and  address."  "  When  will  it  be  paid  for  ?  "  he  asked. 
«  On  Monday." 

'I  followed  him  to  the  table,  and  he  entered  my 
name  and  address  in  a  book.  Then  I  looked  straight 
at  him  again.  "  Now,  you  understand,"  I  said,  "  that  that 
picture  is  mine,  and  I  shall  either  come  or  send  for  it 
about  one  o'clock  on  Monday.  If  I  hadn't  wanted  it 
specially,  you  would  have  lost  a  sale  by  your  imperti- 
nence." And  I  marched  out  of  the  room. 

*  But  I  was  in  a  fearful  state.  I  didn't  know  where 
I  was  going, — I  walked  straight  on,  street  after  street, 
and  just  missed  being  run  over  half  a  dozen  times. 
Perspiration  dripped  from  me.  The  only  thing  I  knew 
was  that  I  had  triumphed  over  a  damned  brute  who  had 
insulted  me.  I  had  stopped  his  mouth ;  he  believed  he 
had  made  a  stupid  mistake ;  he  could  never  have  ima- 
gined that  a  fellow  without  a  sovereign  in  the  world  was 
speaking  to  him  like  that.  If  I  had  knocked  him  down, 


40  A  CAPITALIST 

the  satisfaction  would  have  been  very  slight  in  com- 
parison.' 

The  gloom  of  nightfall  had  come  upon  us,  and  I 
could  no  longer  see  his  face  distinctly,  but  his  voice 
told  me  that  he  still  savoured  that  triumph.  He  spoke 
with  exultant  passion.  I  was  beginning  to  understand 
Ireton. 

'  Isn't  the  story  interesting  ? '  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

'  Very.     Pray  go  on.' 

*  Well,  you  mustn't  suppose  that  it  was  a  mere  bit  of 
crazy  bravado.  I  knew  how  I  was  going  to  get  the 
money — the  forty  guineas.  And  as  soon  as  I  could 
command  myself,  I  went  to  do  the  business. 

'  A  fellow-clerk  in  the  drug  warehouse  had  been 
badly  in  want  of  money  not  long  before  that,  and  I 
knew  he  had  borrowed  twenty  pounds  from  a  loan  office, 
paying  it  back  week  by  week,  with  heavy  interest,  out 
of  his  screw,  poor  devil.  I  could  do  the  same.  I  went 
straight  off  to  the  lender.  It  was  a  fellow  called 
Crowther ;  he  lived  in  Dean  Street,  Soho ;  in  a  window 
on  the  ground  floor  there  was  a  card  with  "  Sums  from  One 
pound  to  a  Hundred  lent  at  short  notice."  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  him  at  home ;  we  did  our  business  in  a 
little  back  room,  where  there  was  a  desk  and  a  couple 
of  chairs,  and  nothing  else  but  dirt.  I  expected  to  find 
an  oldish  man,  but  he  seemed  about  my  own  age,  and 
on  the  whole  I  didn't  dislike  the  look  of  him, — a  rather 
handsome  young  fellow,  fairly  well  dressed,  with  a 
taking  sort  of  smile.  I  began  by  telling  him  where  I 
was  employed,  and  mentioned  my  fellow-clerk,  whom  he 
knew.  That  made  him  quite  cheerful ;  he  offered  me  a 
drink,  and  we  got  on  very  well.  But  he  thought  forty 
guineas  a  big  sum ;  would  I  tell  him  what  I  wanted  it 


A  CAPITALIST  41 

for  ?  No,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  Well,  how  long  would 
it  take  me  to  pay  it  back  ?  Could  I  pay  a  pound  a 
week  ?  No,  I  couldn't.  He  began  to  shake  his  head 
and  to  look  at  me  thoughtfully.  Then  he  asked  no 
end  of  questions,  to  find  out  who  I  was  and  what  people 
I  had  belonging  to  me,  and  what  my  chances  were. 
Then  he  made  me  have  another  drink,  and  at  last  I  was 
persuaded  into  telling  him  the  whole  story.  First  of 
all  he  stared,  and  then  he  laughed ;  I  never  saw  a  man 
laugh  more  heartily.  At  last  he  said,  "  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  you  had  value  in  hand  ?  See  here,  I  '11  look  at 
that  picture  on  Monday  morning,  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  we  can  do  business."  This  alarmed  me, — I 
was  afraid  he  might  get  talking  to  the  picture-dealer. 
But  he  promised  not  to  say  a  word  about  me. 

*  On  Sunday  I  sent  a  note  to  the  warehouse,  saying 
that  I  should  not  be  able  to  come  to  business  till 
Monday  afternoon.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
done  such  a  thing,  and  I  knew  I  could  invent  some  story 
to  excuse  myself.  Most  of  that  day  I  spent  in  bed ;  I 
didn't  feel  myself,  yet  it  was  still  a  great  satisfaction 
to  me  that  I  had  got  the  better  of  that  brute.  On 
Monday  at  twelve  I  kept  the  appointment  in  Dean 
Street.  Crowther  hadn't  come  in,  and  I  sat  for  a  few 
minutes  quaking.  When  he  turned  up,  he  was  quite 
cheerful.  "  Look  here  ! "  he  said,  "  will  you  sell  me  that 
picture  for  thirty  pounds  ?  "  "  What  then  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Why,  then  you  can  pay  me  another  thirty  pounds,  and 
I  '11  give  you  twelve  months  to  do  it  in.  You  shall 
have  your  forty  guineas  at  once."  I  tried  to  reflect,  but 
I  was  too  agitated.  However,  I  saw  that  to  pay  thirty 
pounds  in  a  year  meant  that  I  must  live  on  about  eight 
shillings  a  week.  "  I  don't  know  how  I  'm  to  do  it,"  I  said. 


42  A  CAPITALIST 

He  looked  at  me.  "  Well,  I  won't  be  hard  on  you. 
Look  here,  you  shall  pay  uie  six  bob  a  week  till  the 
thirty  quid 's  made  up.  Now,  you  can  do  that  ?  "  Yes, 
I  could  do  that,  and  I  agreed.  In  another  ten  minutes 
our  business  was  settled, — my  signature  was  so  shaky 
that  I  might  safely  have  disowned  it  afterwards.  Then 
we  had  a  drink  at  a  neighbouring  pub,  and  we  walked 
together  towards  Coventry  Street.  Crowther  was  to 
wait  for  me  near  the  picture-dealer's. 

*  I  entered  with  a  bold  step,  promising  myself  pleasure 
in  a  new  triumph  over  the  brute.  But  he  wasn't  there. 
I  saw  only  an  under-strapper.  I  had  no  time  to  lose, 
for  I  must  be  at  business  by  two  o'clock.  I  paid  the 
money — notes  and  gold — and  took  away  the  picture 
under  my  arm.  Of  course,  it  had  been  removed  from 
the  frame  in  which  I  first  saw  it,  and  the  assistant 
wrapped  it  up  for  me  in  brown  paper.  At  the  street 
corner  I  surrendered  it  to  Crowther.  "  Come  and  see  me 
after  business  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "  I  should  like  to  have 
a  bit  more  talk  with  you." 

'  So  I  had  come  out  of  it  gloriously.  I  cared  nothing 
about  losing  the  picture,  and  I  didn't  grieve  over  the 
six  shillings  a  week  that  I  should  have  to  pay  for  the 
next  two  years.  If  I  went  into  that  gallery  again,  I 
should  be  treated  respectfully — that  was  sufficient.' 

He  laughed,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  we  sat  silent. 
From  the  inn  sounded  rustic  voices  ;  the  village  worthies 
were  gathered  for  their  evening  conversation. 

'That's  the  best  part  of  my  story,'  said  Ireton  at 
length.  '  What  followed  is  commonplace.  Still,  you 
might  like  to  hear  how  I  bridged  the  gulf,  from  four- 
teen shillings  a  week  to  the  position  I  now  hold.  Well, 
I  got  very  intimate  with  Crowther,  and  found  him 


A  CAPITALIST  43 

really  a  very  decent  fellow.  He  had  a  good  many  irons 
in  the  fire.  Besides  his  loan  office,  which  paid  much 
better  than  you  would  imagine,  he  had  a  turf  commission 
agency,  which  brought  him  in  a  good  deal  of  money, 
and  shortly  after  I  met  him  he  became  part  proprietor 
of  a  club  in  Soho.  He  very  soon  talked  to  me  in  the 
frankest  way  of  all  his  doings  ;  I  think  he  was  glad  to 
be  on  friendly  terms  with  me  simply  because  I  was 
better  educated  and  could  behave  decently.  I  don't 
think  he  ever  did  anything  illegal,  and  he  had  plenty 
of  good  feeling, — but  that  didn't  prevent  him  from 
squeezing  eighty  per  cent,  or  so  out  of  many  a  poor 
devil  who  had  borrowed  to  save  himself  or  his  family 
from  starvation.  That  was  all  business ;  he  drew  the 
sharpest  distinctions  between  business  and  private  rela- 
tions, and  was  very  ignorant.  I  never  knew  a  man  so 
superstitious.  Every  day  he  consulted  signs  and  omens. 
For  instance,  to  decide  whether  the  day  was  to  be  lucky 
for  him — in  betting  and  so  on — he  would  stand  at 
a  street  corner  and  count  the  number  of  white  horses 
that  passed  in  fire  minutes  ;  if  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  on  an  even  number,  and  an  even  number  passed, 
then  he  felt  safe  in  following  his  impulses  for  the  day ; 
if  the  number  were  odd,  he  would  do  little  or  no 
speculation.  When  he  was  going  to  play  cards  for 
money,  he  would  find  a  beggar  and  give  him  something, 
even  if  he  had  to  walk  a  great  distance  to  do  it.  He 
often  used  to  visit  an  Italian  who  kept  fortune-telling 
canaries,  and  he  always  followed  the  advice  he  got.  It 
put  him  out  desperately  if  he  saw  the  new  moon  through 
glass,  or  over  his  left  shoulder.  There  was  no  end  to 
his  superstitions,  and,  whether  by  reason  of  them  or  in 
spite  of  them,  he  certainly  prospered.  When  he 


44  A  CAPITALIST 

died,  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  he  left  fifteen  thousand 
pounds. 

'  I  have  to  thank  him  for  my  own  good  luck.  "  Look 
here,"  he  said  to  me,  "  it 's  only  duffers  that  go  on 
quill-driving  at  a  quid  a  week.  A  fellow  like  you  ought 
to  be  doing  better."  "  Show  me  the  way,"  I  said.  And 
I  was  ready  to  do  whatever  he  told  me.  I  had  a  furious 
hunger  for  money;  the  adventure  in  Coventry  Street 
had  thoroughly  unsettled  me,  and  I  would  have  turned 
burglar  rather  than  go  on  much  longer  as  a  wretched 
slave,  looked  down  upon  by  everybody,  and  exposed  to 
insult  at  every  corner.  I  dreamed  of  money-making, 
and  woke  up  feverish  with  determination.  At  last 
Crowther  gave  me  a  few  jobs  to  do  for  him  in  my 
off-time.  They  weren't  very  nice  jobs,  and  I  shouldn't 
like  to  explain  them  to  you ;  but  they  brought  me  in 
half  a  sovereign  now  and  then.  I  began  to  get  an 
insight  into  the  baser  modes  of  filling  one's  pocket. 
Then  something  happened  ;  my  mother  died,  and  I 
became  the  owner  of  a  house  at  Netting  Hill  of  fifty 
pounds  rental.  I  talked  over  my  situation  with 
Crowther,  and  he  advised  me,  as  it  turned  out,  thor- 
oughly well.  I  was  to  raise  money  on  this  house, — not 
to  sell  it, — and  take  shares  in  a  new  music-hall  which 
Crowther  was  connected  with.  There 's  no  reason  why 
I  shouldn't  tell  you ;  it  was  the  Marlborough.  I  did 
take  shares,  and  at  the  end  of  the  second  twelve  months 
I  was  drawing  a  dividend  of  sixty  per  cent.  I  have 
never  drawn  less  than  thirty,  and  the  year  before  last  we 
touched  seventy-five.  At  present  I  am  a  shareholder  in 
three  other  halls, — and  they  don't  do  badly. 

'  I  suppose  it  isn't  only  good  luck  ;  no  doubt  I  have 
a  sort  of  talent  for  money-making,  but  I  never  knew  it 


A  CAPITALIST  45 

before  I  met  Crowther.  By  just  opening  my  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  money  could  be  earned  in  other  ways  than 
at  the  regular  kinds  of  employment,  he  gave  me  a  start, 
and  I  went  ahead.  There  isn't  a  man  in  the  world  has 
suffered  more  than  I  have  for  want  of  money,  and  no 
one  ever  worked  with  a  fiercer  resolve  to  get  out  of  the 
hell  of  contemptible  poverty.  It  would  fill  a  book,  the 
history  of  my  money-making.  The  first  big  sum  I  ever 
was  possessed  of  came  to  me  at  the  age  of  two-and- 
thirty,  when  I  sold  a  proprietary  club  (the  one  Crowther 
had  a  share  in  and  which  I  had  ultimately  got  into  my 
own  hands)  for  nine  thousand  pounds ;  but  I  owed  about 
half  of  this.  I  went  on  and  on,  and  I  got  into  society ; 
that  came  through  the  Marlborough, — a  good  story,  but 
I  mustn't  tell  it.  At  last  I  married — a  rich  woman.1 

He  paused,  and  I  thought,  but  was  not  quite  sure, 
that  I  heard  him  sigh. 

*  We  won't  talk  about  that  either.  I  shall  not  marry 
a  rich  woman  again,  that's  all.  In  fact,  I  don't  care 
for  such  people ;  my  best  friends,  real  friends,  are  all 
more  or  less  strugglers,  and  perhaps  there 's  no  harm  in 
saying  that  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  help  them  when  I  've 
a  chance.  I  like  to  buy  a  picture  of  a  poor  devil  artist. 
I  like  to  smoke  my  pipe  with  good  fellows  who  never  go 
out  of  their  way  for  money's  sake.  All  the  same,  it 's 
a  good  thing  to  be  well  off.  But  for  that,  now,  I 
couldn't  make  the  acquaintance  of  such  people  as  these 
at  Brackley  Hall.  I  more  than  half  like  them.  Old 
Armitage  is  a  gentleman,  and  looks  back  upon  generations 
of  gentlemen,  his  ancestors.  Ah  !  you  can't  buy  that ! 
And  his  daughters  are  devilish  nice  girls,  with  sweet 
soft  voices.  I  'm  glad  the  old  fellow  met  us  yesterday.' 

It  was  now  dark  ;  I   looked  up  and   saw  the  stars 


46  A  CAPITALIST 

brightening.  We  sat  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour, 
each  busy  with  his  own  thoughts,  then  rose  and  parted 
for  the  night. 

A  week  later,  when  I  returned  to  London,  Ireton  was 
still  living  at  the  little  inn,  and  a  letter  I  received  from 
him  at  the  beginning  of  October  told  me  he  had  just 
left.  'The  country  was  exquisite  that  last  week,1  he 
wrote  ; — and  it  struck  me  that  *  exquisite '  was  a  word 
he  must  have  caught  from  some  one  else's  lips. 

I  heard  from  him  again  in  the  following  January. 
He  wrote  from  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  informed  me  that 
in  the  spring  he  was  to  be  married  to  Miss  Ethel  Armi- 
tage,  second  daughter  of  Humphrey  Armitage,  Esq., 
of  Brackley  Hall. 


CHRISTOPHERSON 

IT  was  twenty  years  ago,  and  on  an  evening  in  May. 
All  day  long  there  had  been  sunshine.  Owing,  doubt- 
less, to  the  incident  I  am  about  to  relate,  the  light  and 
warmth  of  that  long-vanished  day  live  with  me  still ;  I 
can  see  the  great  white  clouds  that  moved  across  the 
strip  of  sky  before  my  window,  and  feel  again  the  spring 
languor  which  troubled  my  solitary  work  in  the  heart 
of  London. 

Only  at  sunset  did  I  leave  the  house.  There  was  an 
unwonted  sweetness  in  the  air ;  the  long  vistas  of  newly 
lit  lamps  made  a  golden  glow  under  the  dusking  flush 
of  the  sky.  With  no  purpose  but  to  rest  and  breathe, 
I  wandered  for  half  an  hour,  and  found  myself  at 
length  where  Great  Portland  Street  opens  into  Maryle- 
bone  Road.  Over  the  way,  in  the  shadow  of  Trinity 
Church,  was  an  old  bookshop,  well  known  to  me :  the 
gas-jet  shining  upon  the  stall  with  its  rows  of  volumes 
drew  me  across.  I  began  turning  over  pages,  and — 
invariable  consequence — fingering  what  money  I  had  in 
my  pocket.  A  certain  book  overcame  me ;  I  stepped 
into  the  little  shop  to  pay  for  it. 

While  standing  at  the  stall,  I  had  been  vaguely 
aware  of  some  one  beside  me,  a  man  who  also  was  looking 
over  the  books ;  as  I  came  out  again  with  my  purchase, 
this  stranger  gazed  at  me  intently,  with  a  half-smile  of 

47 


48  CHRISTOPHERSON 

peculiar  interest.  He  seemed  about  to  say  something. 
I  walked  slowly  away ;  the  man  moved  in  the  same 
direction.  Just  in  front  of  the  church  he  made  a 
quick  movement  to  my  side,  and  spoke. 

'  Pray  excuse  me,  sir — don't  misunderstand  me — I 
only  wished  to  ask  whether  you  have  noticed  the  name 
written  on  the  flyleaf  of  the  book  you  have  just 
bought  ? ' 

The  respectful  nervousness  of  his  voice  naturally 
made  me  suppose  at  first  that  the  man  was  going  to 
beg  ;  but  he  seemed  no  ordinary  mendicant.  I  judged 
him  to  be  about  sixty  years  of  age ;  his  long,  thin  hair 
and  straggling  beard  were  grizzled,  and  a  somewhat 
rheumy  eye  looked  out  from  his  bloodless,  hollowed 
countenance ;  he  was  very  shabbily  clad,  yet  as  a  fallen 
gentleman,  and  indeed  his  accent  made  it  clear  to  what 
class  he  originally  belonged.  The  expression  with  which 
he  regarded  me  had  so  much  intelligence,  so  much  good- 
nature, and  at  the  same  time  such  a  pathetic  diffidence, 
that  I  could  not  but  answer  him  in  the  friendliest  way. 
I  had  not  seen  the  name  on  the  flyleaf,  but  at  once  I 
opened  the  book,  and  by  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp  read, 
inscribed  in  a  very  fine  hand,  *  W.  R.  Christopherson, 
1849.' 

*  It  is  my  name,'  said  the  stranger,  in  a  subdued  and 
uncertain  voice. 

'  Indeed  ?     The  book  used  to  belong  to  you  ? ' 

'  It  belonged  to  me.1  He  laughed  oddly,  a  tremulous 
little  crow  of  a  laugh,  at  the  same  time  stroking  his 
head,  as  if  to  deprecate  disbelief.  '  You  never  heard  of 
the  sale  of  the  Christopherson  library  ?  To  be  sure, 
you  were  too  young;  it  was  in  1860.  I  have  often 
come  across  books  with  my  name  in  them  on  the  stalls 


CHRISTOPHERSON  49 

— often.  I  had  happened  to  notice  this  just  before  you 
came  up,  and  when  I  saw  you  look  at  it,  I  was  curious 
to  see  whether  you  would  buy  it.  Pray  excuse  the 
freedom  I  am  taking.  Lovers  of  books — don't  you 

think ?' 

The  broken  question  was  completed  by  his  look,  and 
when  I  said  that  I  quite  understood  and  agreed  with 
him  he  crowed  his  little  laugh. 

*  Have  you  a  large  library  ? '  he  inquired,  eyeing  me 
wistfully. 

'  Oh  dear,  no.  Only  a  few  hundred  volumes.  Too 
many  for  one  who  has  no  house  of  his  own.' 

He  smiled  good-naturedly,  bent  his  head,  and  mur- 
mured just  audibly : 

'My  catalogue  numbered  24,718.' 

I  was  growing  curious  and  interested.  Venturing  no 
more  direct  questions,  I  asked  whether,  at  the  time  he 
spoke  of,  he  lived  in  London. 

*  If  you  have  five  minutes  to  spare,'  was  the  timid 
reply,  '  I  will  show  you  my  house.     I  mean ' — again  the 
little  crowing  laugh — '  the  house  which  was  mine.' 

Willingly  I  walked  on  with  him.  He  led  me  a  short 
distance  up  the  road  skirting  Regent's  Park,  and  paused 
at  length  before  a  house  in  an  imposing  terrace. 

*  There,'  he  whispered,  '  I  used  to  live.     The  window 
to  the  right  of  the  door — that  was  my  library.     Ah  ! ' 

And  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

'  A  misfortune  befell  you,'  I  said,  also  in  a  subdued 
voice. 

'  The  result  of  my  own  folly.  I  had  enough  for  my 
needs,  but  thought  I  needed  more.  I  let  myself  be 
drawn  into  business — I,  who  knew  nothing  of  such 
things — and  there  came  the  black  day — the  black  day.' 


50  CHRISTOPHERSON 

We  turned  to  retrace  our  steps,  and  walking  slowly, 
with  heads  bent,  came  in  silence  again  to  the  church. 

*  I  wonder  whether  you  have  bought  any  other  of  my 
books  ? '   asked   Christopherson,   with  his   gentle  smile, 
when  we  had  paused  as  if  for  leave-taking. 

I  replied  that  I  did  not  remember  to  have  come 
across  his  name  before ;  then,  on  an  impulse,  asked 
whether  he  would  care  to  have  the  book  I  carried  in 
my  hand  ;  if  so,  with  pleasure  I  would  give  it  him.  No 
sooner  were  the  words  spoken  than  I  saw  the  delight 
they  caused  the  hearer.  He  hesitated,  murmured  re- 
luctance, but  soon  gratefully  accepted  my  offer,  and 
flushed  with  joy  as  he  took  the  volume. 

'  I  still  have  a  few  books,1  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
as  if  he  spoke  of  something  he  was  ashamed  to  make 
known.  '  But  it  is  very  rarely  indeed  that  I  can  add 
to  them.  I  feel  I  have  not  thanked  you  half  enough.' 

We  shook  hands  and  parted. 

My  lodging  at  that  time  was  in  Camden  Town.  One 
afternoon,  perhaps  a  fortnight  later,  I  had  walked  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  on  my  way  back  I  stopped  at  a 
bookstall  in  the  High  Street.  Some  one  came  up  to  my 
side ;  I  looked,  and  recognised  Christopherson.  Our 
greeting  was  like  that  of  old  friends. 

'  I  have  seen  you  several  times  lately,'  said  the  broken 
gentleman,  who  looked  shabbier  than  before  in  the 
broad  daylight,  '  but  I — I  didn't  like  to  speak.  I  live 
not  far  from  here.' 

*  Why,  so  do  I,'  and  I  added,  without  much  thinking 
what  I  said,  '  do  you  live  alone  ? ' 

'  Alone  ?  oh  no.     With  my  wife.' 
There  was  a  curious  embarrassment  in  his  tone.    His 
eyes  were  cast  down  and  his  head  moved  uneasily. 


CHRISTOPHERSON  51 

We  began  to  talk  of  the  books  on  the  stall,  and 
turning  away  together  continued  our  conversation. 
Christopherson  was  not  only  a  well-bred  but  a  very 
intelligent  and  even  learned  man.  On  his  giving  some 
proof  of  erudition  (with  the  excessive  modesty  which 
characterised  him),  I  asked  whether  he  wrote.  No,  he 
had  never  written  anything — never ;  he  was  only  a  book- 
worm, he  said.  Thereupon  he  crowed  faintly  and  took 
his  leave. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  again  met  by  chance.  We 
came  face  to  face  at  a  street  corner  in  my  neighbour- 
hood, and  I  was  struck  by  a  change  in  him.  He  looked 
older;  a  profound  melancholy  darkened  his  counten- 
ance ;  the  hand  he  gave  me  was  limp,  and  his  pleasure 
at  our  meeting  found  only  a  faint  expression. 

*  I  am  going  away,1  he  said  in  reply  to  my  inquiring 
look.     *  I  am  leaving  London.' 

*  For  good  ? ' 

'I  fear  so,  and  yet' — he  made  an  obvious  effort — *I 
am  glad  of  it.  My  wife's  health  has  not  been  very 
good  lately.  She  has  need  of  country  air.  Yes,  I  am 
glad  we  have  decided  to  go  away — very  glad — very  glad 
indeed ! ' 

He  spoke  with  an  automatic  sort  of  emphasis,  his 
eyes  wandering,  and  his  hands  twitching  nervously.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  asking  what  part  of  the  country  he 
had  chosen  for  his  retreat,  when  he  abruptly  added : 

*  I  live  just  over  there.     Will  you  let  me  show  you 
my  books  ? ' 

Of  course  I  gladly  accepted  the  invitation,  and  a 
couple  of  minutes'  walk  brought  us  to  a  house  in  a 
decent  street  where  most  of  the  ground-floor  windows 
showed  a  card  announcing  lodgings.  As  we  paused  at 


52  CHRISTOPHERSON 

the  door,  my  companion  seemed  to   hesitate,  to   regret 
having  invited  me. 

*  I  'm  really  afraid  it  isn't  worth  your  while,'  he  said 
timidly.     'The   fact  is,   I   haven't   space   to   show  my 
books  properly.1 

I  put  aside  the  objection,  and  we  entered.  With 
anxious  courtesy  Christopherson  led  me  up  the  narrow 
staircase  to  the  second-floor  landing,  and  threw  open  a 
door.  On  the  threshold  I  stood  astonished.  The  room 
was  a  small  one,  and  would  in  any  case  have  only  just 
sufficed  for  homely  comfort,  used  as  it  evidently  was  for 
all  daytime  purposes  ;  but  certainly  a  third  of  the  entire 
space  was  occupied  by  a  solid  mass  of  books,  volumes 
stacked  several  rows  deep  against  two  of  the  walls  and 
almost  up  to  the  ceiling.  A  round  table  and  two  or 
three  chairs  were  the  only  furniture — there  was  no 
room,  indeed,  for  more.  The  window  being  shut,  and 
the  sunshine  glowing  upon  it,  an  intolerable  stuffiness 
oppressed  the  air.  Never  had  I  been  made  so  uncom- 
fortable by  the  odour  of  printed  paper  and  bindings. 

'  But,'  I  exclaimed,  '  you  said  you  had  only  a  Jew 
books !  There  must  be  five  times  as  many  here  as  I 
have.1 

*  I  forget  the  exact  number,1  murmured  Christopher- 
son,  in  great  agitation.     '  You  see,  I  can't  arrange  them 
properly.     I  have  a  few  more  in — in  the  other  room.' 

He  led  me  across  the  landing,  opened  another  door, 
and  showed  me  a  little  bedroom.  Here  the  encumber- 
ment  was  less  remarkable,  but  one  wall  had  completely 
disappeared  behind  volumes,  and  the  bookishness  of  the 
air  made  it  a  disgusting  thought  that  two  persons 
occupied  this  chamber  every  night. 

We    returned    to    the    sitting-room,    Christopherson 


CHRISTOPHERSON  53 

began  picking  out  books  from  the  solid  mass  to  show 
me.  Talking  nervously,  brokenly,  with  now  and  then  a 
deep  sigh  or  a  crow  of  laughter,  he  gave  me  a  little 
light  on  his  history.  I  learnt  that  he  had  occupied 
these  lodgings  for  the  last  eight  years ;  that  he  had 
been  twice  married  ;  that  the  only  child  he  had  had,  a 
daughter  by  his  first  wife,  had  died  long  ago  in  child- 
hood ;  and  lastly — this  came  in  a  burst  of  confidence, 
with  a  very  pleasant  smile — that  his  second  wife  had 
been  his  daughter's  governess.  I  listened  with  keen 
interest,  and  hoped  to  learn  still  more  of  the  circum- 
stances of  this  singular  household. 

'  In  the  country,'  I  remarked,  *  you  will  no  doubt 
have  shelf  room  ? ' 

At  once  his  countenance  fell ;  he  turned  upon  me  a 
woebegone  eye.  Just  as  I  was  about  to  speak  again 
sounds  from  within  the  house  caught  my  attention ; 
there  was  a  heavy  foot  on  the  stairs,  and  a  loud  voice, 
which  seemed  familiar  to  me. 

'  Ah  ! '  exclaimed  Christopherson  with  a  start,  *  here 
comes  some  one  who  is  going  to  help  me  in  the  removal 
of  the  books.  Come  in,  Mr.  Pomfret,  come  in  ! ' 

The  door  opened,  and  there  appeared  a  tall,  wiry 
fellow,  whose  sandy  hair,  light  blue  eyes,  jutting  jaw- 
bones, and  large  mouth  made  a  picture  suggestive  of 
small  refinement  but  of  vigorous  and  wholesome 
manhood.  No  wonder  I  had  seemed  to  recognise  his 
voice.  Though  we  only  saw  each  other  by  chance  at 
long  intervals,  Pomfret  and  I  were  old  acquaintances. 

'  Hallo  ! '  he  roared  out,  *  I  didn't  know  you  knew 
Mr.  Christopherson.* 

'I'm  just  as  much  surprised  to  find  that  you  know 
him  ! '  was  my  reply. 


54  CHRISTOPHERSON 

The  old  book-lover  gazed  at  us  in  nervous  astonish- 
ment, then  shook  hands  with  the  newcomer,  who  greeted 
him  bluffly,  yet  respectfully.  Pomfret  spoke  with  a 
strong  Yorkshire  accent,  and  had  all  the  angularity  of 
demeanour  which  marks  the  typical  Yorkshireman.  He 
came  to  announce  that  everything  had  been  settled  for 
the  packing  and  transporting  of  Mr.  Christopherson's 
library ;  it  remained  only  to  decide  the  day. 

'  There 's  no  hurry,'  exclaimed  Christopherson. 
'  There 's  really  no  hurry.  I  'm  greatly  obliged  to  you, 
Mr.  Pomfret,  for  all  the  trouble  you  are  taking.  We  '11 
settle  the  date  in  a  day  or  two — a  day  or  two.' 

With  a  good-humoured  nod  Pomfret  moved  to  take 
his  leave.  Our  eyes  met ;  we  left  the  house  together. 
Out  in  the  street  again  I  took  a  deep  breath  of  the 
summer  air,  which  seemed  sweet  as  in  a  meadow  after 
that  stifling  room.  My  companion  evidently  had  a  like 
sensation,  for  he  looked  up  to  the  sky  and  broadened 
out  his  shoulders. 

'  Eh,  but  it 's  a  grand  day  !  I  'd  give  something  for 
a  walk  on  Ilkley  Moors.' 

As  the  best  substitute  within  our  reach  we  agreed  to 
walk  across  Regent's  Park  together.  Pomfret's  business 
took  him  in  that  direction,  and  I  was  glad  of  a  talk 
about  Christopherson.  I  learnt  that  the  old  book- 
lover's  landlady  was  Pomfret's  aunt.  Christopherson's 
story  of  affluence  and  ruin  was  quite  true.  Ruin 
complete,  for  at  the  age  of  forty  he  had  been 
obliged  to  earn  his  living  as  a  clerk  or  something 
of  the  kind.  About  five  years  later  came  his  second 
marriage. 

*  You  know  Mrs.  Christopherson  ? '  asked  Pomfret. 

'  No  !     I  wish  I  did.     Why  ? ' 


CHRISTOPHERSON  55 

*  Because  she 's  the  sort  of  woman  it  does  you  good  to 
know,  that's  all.      She's  a  lady — my  idea  of  a  lady. 
Christopherson  's  a  gentleman  too,  there 's  no  denying  it ; 
if  he  wasn't,  I  think  I  should  have  punched  his  head 
before  now.      Oh,  I  know  'em  well !  why,  I  lived  in  the 
house  there  with  'em  for  several  years.     She 's  a  lady  to 
the  end  of  her  little  finger,  and  how  her  husband  can  'a 
borne  to  see  her  living  the  life  she  has,  it 's  more  than  I 

can  understand.       By !     I  'd  have  turned  burglar, 

if  I   could  'a  found   no  other  way   of    keeping  her  in 
comfort.' 

'  She  works  for  her  living,  then  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  and  for  his  too.  No,  not  teaching ;  she 's 
in  a  shop  in  Tottenham  Court  Road ;  has  what  they 
call  a  good  place,  and  earns  thirty  shillings  a  week. 
It 's  all  they  have,  but  Christopherson  buys  books  out 
of  it.' 

'  But  has  he  never  done  anything  since  their 
marriage  ? ' 

*  He  did  for  the  first  few  years,  I  believe,  but  he  had 
an  illness,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.    Since  then  he 's 
only  loafed.     He  goes  to  all  the  book-sales,  and  spends 
the  rest  of  his  time  sniffing  about  the  second-hand  shops. 
She  ?     Oh,  she  'd  never  say  a  word  !     Wait  till  you  've 
seen  her.' 

'  Well,  but,'  I  asked,  '  what  has  happened.  How  is  it 
they  're  leaving  London  ? ' 

*  Ay,  I  '11  tell  you ;    I  was  coming  to  that.      Mrs. 
Christopherson  has  relatives  well  off — a  fat  and  selfish 
lot,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out — never  lifted  a  finger  to 
help  her  until  now.     One  of  them 's  a  Mrs.  Keeting,  the 
widow  of  some  City  porpoise,  I  'm  told.    Well,  this  woman 
has  a  home  down  in  Norfolk.     She  never  lives  there,  but 


56  CHRISTOPHERSON 

j 

a  son  of  hers  goes  there  to  fish  and  shoot  now  and  then. 
Well,  this  is  what  Mrs.  Christopherson  tells  my  aunt, 
Mrs.  Keeting  has  offered  to  let  her  and  her  husband  live 
down  yonder,  rent  free,  and  their  food  provided.  She 's 
to  be  housekeeper,  in  fact,  and  keep  the  place  ready  for 
any  one  who  goes  down.' 

'  Christopherson,  /  can  see,  would  rather  stay  where 
he  is.' 

'Why,  of  course,  he  doesn't  know  how  he'll  live 
without  the  bookshops.  But  he 's  glad  for  all  that,  on 
his  wife's  account.  And  it 's  none  too  soon,  I  can  tell 
you.  The  poor  woman  couldn't  go  on  much  longer ; 
my  aunt  says  she's  just  about  ready  to  drop,  and  some- 
times, I  know,  she  looks  terribly  bad.  Of  course,  she 
won't  own  it,  not  she ;  she  isn't  one  of  the  complaining 
sort.  But  she  talks  now  and  then  about  the  country — 
the  places  where  she  used  to  live.  I  've  heard  her,  and 
it  gives  me  a  notion  of  what  she 's  gone  through  all 
these  years.  I  saw  her  a  week  ago,  just  when  she 
had  Mrs.  Keeting's  offer,  and  I  tell  you  I  scarcely 
knew  who  it  was  !  You  never  saw  such  a  change  in 
any  one  in  your  life  !  Her  face  was  like  that  of  a  girl  of 
seventeen.  And  her  laugh — you  should  have  heard  her 
laugh ! ' 

'  Is  she  much  younger  than  her  husband  ? '  I  asked. 

*  Twenty  years  at  least.      She 's  about  forty,  I  think.' 
I  mused  for  a  few  moments. 

*  After  all,  it  isn't  an  unhappy  marriage  ? ' 

'  Unhappy  ?  '  cried  Pomfret.  .  *  Why,  there  's  never 
been  a  disagreeable  word  between  them,  that  I  '11 
warrant.  Once  Christopherson  gets  over  the  change, 
they'll  have  nothing  more  in  the  world  to  ask  for. 
He  '11  potter  over  his  books ' 


CHRISTOPHERSON  57 

'You  mean  to  tell  me,'  I  interrupted,  'that  those 
books  have  all  been  bought  out  of  his  wife's  thirty 
shillings  a  week  ? ' 

'  No,  no.  To  begin  with,  he  kept  a  few  out  of  his 
old  library.  Then,  when  he  was  earning  his  own  living, 
he  bought  a  great  many.  He  told  me  once  that  he 's 
often  lived  on  sixpence  a  day  to  have  money  for  books. 
A  rum  old  owl ;  but  for  all  that  he 's  a  gentleman,  and 
you  can't  help  liking  him.  I  shall  be  sorry  when  he's 
out  of  reach.' 

For  my  own  part,  I  wished  nothing  better  than 
to  hear  of  Christopherson's  departure.  The  story  I 
had  heard  made  me  uncomfortable.  It  was  good  to 
think  of  that  poor  woman  rescued  at  last  from  her  life 
of  toil,  and  in  these  days  of  midsummer  free  to  enjoy 
the  country  she  loved.  A  touch  of  envy  mingled,  I 
confess,  with  my  thought  of  Christopherson,  who  hence- 
forth had  not  a  care  in  the  world,  and  without  reproach 
might  delight  in  his  hoarded  volumes.  One  could  not 
imagine  that  he  would  suffer  seriously  by  the  removal  of 
his  old  haunts.  I  promised  myself  to  call  on  him  in  a 
day  or  two.  By  choosing  Sunday,  I  might  perhaps  be 
lucky  enough  to  see  his  wife. 

And  on  Sunday  afternoon  I  was  on  the  point  of 
setting  forth  to  pay  this  visit,  when  in  came  Pomfret. 
He  wore  a  surly  look,  and  kicked  clumsily  against 
the  furniture  as  he  crossed  the  room.  His  appear- 
ance was  a  surprise,  for,  though  I  had  given  him  my 
address,  I  did  not  in  the  least  expect  that  he  would 
come  to  see  me ;  a  certain  pride,  I  suppose,  character- 
istic of  his  rugged  strain,  having  always  made  him  shy 
of  such  intimacy. 

'  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that  \ '  he  shouted,  half 


58  CHRISTOPHERSON 

angrily.  *  It 's  all  over.  They  're  not  going  !  And  all 
because  of  those  blamed  books  ! ' 

And  spluttering  and  growling,  he  made  known  what 
he  had  just  learnt  at  his  aunt's  home.  On  the  previous 
afternoon  the  Christophersons  had  been  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  their  relatives  and  would-be  benefactress,  Mrs. 
Keeting.  Never  before  had  that  lady  called  upon  them  ; 
she  came,  no  doubt  (this  could  only  be  conjectured),  to 
speak  with  them  of  their  approaching  removal.  The 
close  of  the  conversation  (a  very  brief  one)  was  over- 
heard by  the  landlady,  for  Mrs.  Keeting  spoke  loudly  as 
she  descended  the  stairs.  '  Impossible  !  Quite  impos- 
sible !  I  couldn't  think  of  it !  How  could  you  dream 
for  a  moment  that  I  would  let  you  fill  my  house  with  musty 
old  books  ?  Most  unhealthy  !  I  never  knew  anything  so 
extraordinary  in  my  life,  never  ! '  And  so  she  went  out 
to  her  carriage,  and  was  driven  away.  And  the  landlady, 
presently  having  occasion  to  go  upstairs,  was  aware 
of  a  dead  silence  in  the  room  where  the  Christophersons 
were  sitting.  She  knocked — prepared  with  some  excuse 
— and  found  the  couple  side  by  side,  smiling  sadly.  At 
once  they  told  her  the  truth.  Mrs.  Keeting  had  come 
because  of  a  letter  in  which  Mrs.  Christopherson  had 
mentioned  the  fact  that  her  husband  had  a  good  many 
books,  and  hoped  he  might  be  permitted  to  remove 
them  to  the  house  in  Norfolk.  She  came  to  see  the 
library — with  the  result  already  heard.  They  had  the 
choice  between  sacrificing  the  books  and  losing  what 
their  relative  offered. 

'  Christopherson  refused  ? '  I  let  fall. 

'I  suppose  his  wife  saw  that  it  was  too  much 
for  him.  At  all  events,  they'd  agreed  to  keep 
the  books  and  lose  the  house.  And  there's  an  end 


CHRISTOPHERSON  59 

of  it.  I  haven't  been  so  riled  about  anything  for  a  long 
time ! ' 

Meantime  I  had  been  reflecting.  It  was  easy  for  me 
to  understand  Christopherson's  state  of  mind,  and  with- 
out knowing  Mrs.  Keeting,  I  saw  that  she  must  be  a 
person  whose  benefactions  would  be  a  good  deal  of  a 
burden.  After  all,  was  Mrs.  Christopherson  so  very 
unhappy  ?  Was  she  not  the  kind  of  woman  who  lived 
by  sacrifice — one  who  had  far  rather  lead  a  life  dis- 
agreeable to  herself  than  change  it  at  the  cost  of 
discomfort  to  her  husband  ?  This  view  of  the  matter 
irritated  Pomfret,  and  he  broke  into  objurgations, 
directed  partly  against  Mrs.  Keeting,  partly  against 
Christopherson.  It  was  an  '  infernal  shame,'  that  was 
all  he  could  say.  And  after  all,  I  rather  inclined  to  his 
opinion. 

When  two  or  three  days  had  passed,  curiosity  drew 
me  towards  the  Christophersons1  dwelling.  Walking 
along  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  I  looked  up  at  their 
window,  and  there  was  the  face  of  the  old  bibliophile. 
Evidently  he  was  standing  at  the  window  in  idleness, 
perhaps  in  trouble.  At  once  he  beckoned  to  me  ;  but 
before  I  could  knock  at  the  house-door  he  had  descended, 
and  came  out. 

4  May  I  walk  a  Jittle  way  with  you  ?'  he  asked. 

There  was  worry  on  his  features.  For  some  moments 
we  went  on  in  silence. 

'  So  you  have  changed  your  mind  about  leaving 
London  ? '  I  said,  as  if  carelessly. 

'  You  have  heard  from  Mr.  Pomfret  ?  Well — yes, 
yes — I  think  we  shall  stay  where  we  are — for  the 
present.1 

Never  have  I  seen  a  man  more  painfully  embarrassed. 


60  CHRISTOPHERSON 

He  walked  with  head  bent,  shoulders  stooping ;  and 
shuffled,  indeed,  rather  than  walked.  Even  so  might  a 
man  bear  himself  who  felt  guilty  of  some  peculiar 
meanness. 

Presently  words  broke  from  him. 

*  To  tell  you  the  truth,  there 's  a  difficulty  about  the 
books.1  He  glanced  furtively  at  me,  and  I  saw  he  was 
trembling  in  all  his  nerves.  <  As  you  see,  my  circum- 
stances are  not  brilliant.'  He  half-choked  himself  with 
a  crow.  '  The  fact  is  we  were  offered  a  house  in  the 
country,  on  certain  conditions,  by  a  relative  of  Mrs. 
Christopherson ;  and,  unfortunately,  it  turned  out  that 
my  library  is  regarded  as  an  objection — a  fatal  objec- 
tion. We  have  quite  reconciled  ourselves  to  staying 
where  we  are/ 

I  could  not  help  asking,  without  emphasis,  whether 
Mrs.  Christopherson  would  have  cared  for  life  in  the 
country.  But  no  sooner  were  the  words  out  of  my 
mouth  than  I  regretted  them,  so  evidently  did  they  hit 
my  companion  in  a  tender  place. 

'  I  think  she  would  have  liked  it,'  he  answered,  with 
a  strangely  pathetic  look  at  me,  as  if  he  entreated  my 
forbearance. 

'  But,'  I  suggested,  '  couldn't  you  make  some  arrange- 
ments about  the  books  ?  Couldn't  you  take  a  room  for 
them  in  another  house,  for  instance  ?  ' 

Christopherson's  face  was  sufficient  answer ;  it  re- 
minded me  of  his  pennilessness.  '  We  think  no  more 
about  it,'  he  said.  'The  matter  is  settled — quite 
settled.' 

There  was  no  pursuing  the  subject.  At  the  next 
parting  of  the  ways  we  took  leave  of  each  other. 

I  think  it  was  not  more  than  a  week  later  when  I 


CHRISTOPHERSON  61 

received  a  postcard  from  Pomfret.  He  wrote  :  '  Just  as 
I  expected.  Mrs.  C.  seriously  ill.'  That  was  all. 

Mrs.  C.  could,  of  course,  only  mean  Mrs.  Christo- 
pherson.  I  mused  over  the  message — it  took  hold  of 
my  imagination,  wrought  upon  my  feelings ;  and  that 
afternoon  I  again  walked  along  the  interesting  street. 

There  was  no  face  at  the  window.  After  a  little 
hesitation  I  decided  to  call  at  the  house  and  speak  with 
Pomfret's  aunt.  It  was  she  who  opened  the  door  to  me. 

We  had  never  seen  each  other,  but  when  I  mentioned 
my  name  and  said  I  was  anxious  to  have  news  of  Mrs. 
Christopher-son,  she  led  me  into  a  sitting-room,  and 
began  to  talk  confidentially. 

She  was  a  good-natured  Yorkshirewoman,  very  unlike 
the  common  London  landlady.  'Yes,  Mrs.  Christo- 
pherson had  been  taken  ill  two  days  ago.  It  began 
with  a  long  fainting  fit.  She  had  a  feverish,  sleepless 
night ;  the  doctor  was  sent  for  ;  and  he  had  her  removed 
out  of  the  stuffy,  book-cumbered  bedroom  into  another 
chamber,  which  luckily  happened  to  be  vacant.  There 
she  lay  utterly  weak  and  worn,  all  but  voiceless,  able 
only  to  smile  at  her  husband,  who  never  moved  from 
the  bedside  day  or  night.  He,  too,1  said  the  landlady, 
'  would  soon  break  down  :  he  looked  like  a  ghost,  and 
seemed  "  half- crazed." ' 

*  What,'  I  asked,  '  could  be  the  cause  of  this  illness  ? 

The  good  woman  gave  me  an  odd  look,  shook  her 
head,  and  murmured  that  the  reason  was  not  far  to  seek. 

'Did  she  think,'  I  asked,  '  that  disappointment  might 
have  something  to  do  with  it  ? ' 

Why,  of  course  she  did.  For  a  long  time  the  poor 
lady  had  been  all  but  at  the  end  of  her  strength,  and 
thin  came  as  a  blow  beneath  which  she  sank 


62  CHRISTOPHERSON 

*  Your  nephew  and  I  have  talked   about  it,1  I  said. 

*  He  thinks  that  Mr.  Christopherson  didn't  understand 
what  a  sacrifice  he  asked  his  wife  to  make.' 

'  I  think  so  too,1  was  the  reply.  '  But  he  begins  to 
see  it  now,  I  can  tell  you.  He  says  nothing  but ' 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  a  hurried  tremulous 
voice  begged  the  landlady  to  go  upstairs. 

<  What  is  it,  sir  ? 1  she  asked. 

*  I  'm  afraid  she 's  worse,1  said  Christopherson,  turning 
his  haggard  face  to  me  with  startled  recognition.     *  Do 
come  up  at  once,  please.1 

Without  a  word  to  me  he  disappeared  with  the  land- 
lady. I  could  not  go  away ;  for  some  ten  minutes  I 
fidgeted  about  the  little  room,  listening  to  every  sound 
in  the  house.  Then  came  a  footfall  on  the  stairs,  and 
the  landlady  rejoined  me. 

'  It 's  nothing,1  she  said.  '  I  almost  think  she  might 
drop  off  to  sleep,  if  she  's  left  quiet.  He  worries  her, 
poor  man,  sitting  there  and  asking  her  every  two 
minutes  how  she  feels.  I  \e  persuaded  him  to  go  to  his 
room,  and  I  think  it  might  do  him  good  if  you  went  and 
had  a  bit  o1  talk  with  him.1 

I  mounted  at  once  to  the  second-floor  sitting-room, 
and  found  Christopherson  sunk  upon  a  chair,  his  head 
falling  forwards,  the  image  of  despairing  misery.  As  I 
approached  he  staggered  to  his  feet.  He  took  my  hand 
in  a  shrinking,  shamefaced  way,  and  could  not  raise  his 
eyes.  I  uttered  a  few  words  of  encouragement,  but  they 
had  the  opposite  effect  to  that  designed. 

'  Don't   tell    me  that,1  he   moaned,  half  resentfully. 

*  She 's    dying — she 's    dying — say    what    they    will,    I 
know  it.1 

'  Have  you  a  good  doctor  ? ? 


CHRISTOPHERSON  63 

*  I  think  so — but  it 's  too  late — it 's  too  late.' 

As  he  dropped  to  his  chair  again  I  sat  down  by  him. 
The  silence  of  a  minute  or  two  was  broken  by  a  thun- 
derous rat-tat  at  the  house-door.  Christopherson  leapt 
to  his  feet,  rushed  from  the  room  ;  I,  half  fearing  that 
he  had  gone  mad,  followed  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

In  a  moment  he  came  up  again,  limp  and  wretched 
as  before. 

*  It  was  the  postman,1  he  muttered.     *  I  am  expecting 
a  letter.1 

Conversation  seeming  impossible,  I  shaped  a  phrase 
preliminary  to  withdrawal;  but  Christopherson  would 
not  let  me  go. 

'  I  should  like  to  tell  you,1  he  began,  looking  at  me 
like  a  dog  under  punishment,  '  that  I  have  done  all  I 
could.  As  soon  as  my  wife  fell  ill,  and  when  I  saw — I 
had  only  begun  to  think  of  it  in  that  way — how  she  felt 
the  disappointment,  I  went  at  once  to  Mrs.  Keeting's 
house  to  tell  her  that  I  would  sell  the  books.  But  she 
was  out  of  town.  I  wrote  to  her — I  said  I  regretted 
my  folly — I  entreated  her  to  forgive  me  and  to  renew 
her  kind  offer.  There  has  been  plenty  of  time  for  a 
reply,  but  she  doesn't  answer.1 

He  had  in  his  hand  what  I  saw  was  a  bookseller's  cata- 
logue, just  delivered  by  the  postman.  Mechanically  he 
tore  off  the  wrapper  and  even  glanced  over  the  first  page. 
Then,  as  if  conscience  stabbed  him,  he  flung  the  thing 
violently  away. 

*The  chance  has  gone!1  he  exclaimed, taking  a  hurried 
step  or  two  along  the  little  strip  of  floor  left  free  by  the 
mountain  of  books.  *  Of  course  she  said  she  would  rather 
stay  in  London  !  Of  course  she  said  what  she  knew 
would  please  me  !  When — when  did  she  ever  say  any- 


64  CHRISTOPHERSON 

thing  else  !  And  I  was  cruel  enough — base  enough — 
to  let  her  make  the  sacrifice ! '  He  waved  his  arms 
frantically.  *  Didn't  I  know  what  it  cost  her  ? 
Couldn't  I  see  in  her  face  how  her  heart  leapt  at  the 
hope  of  going  to  live  in  the  country !  I  knew  what  she 
was  suffering ;  I  knew  it,  I  tell  you  !  And,  like  a  selfish 
coward,  I  let  her  suffer — I  let  her  drop  down  and  die — 
die!1 

'  Any  hour,'  I  said,  '  may  bring  you  the  reply  from 
Mrs.  Keeting.  Of  course  it  will  be  favourable,  and  the 
good  news ' 

*  Too  late,  I  have   killed   her !    That   woman  won't 
write.     She's  one  of  the  vulgar  rich,  and  we  offended 
her  pride ;  and  such  as  she  never  forgive.' 

He  sat  down  for  a  moment,  but  started  up  again  in 
an  agony  of  mental  suffering. 

'  She  is  dying — and  there,  there,  that 's  what  has 
killed  her  ! '  He  gesticulated  wildly  towards  the  books. 
'  I  have  sold  her  life  for  those.  Oh  ! — oh  ! ' 

With  this  cry  he  seized  half  a  dozen  volumes,  and, 
before  I  could  understand  what  he  was  about,  he  had 
flung  up  the  window-sash,  and  cast  the  books  into  the 
street.  Another  batch  followed  ;  I  heard  the  thud  upon 
the  pavement.  Then  I  caught  him  by  the  arm,  held 
him  fast,  begged  him  to  control  himself. 

*  They  shall  all  go  ! '  he  cried.      *  I  loathe  the  sight 
of  them.     They  have  killed  my  dear  wife  ! ' 

He  said  it  sobbing,  and  at  the  last  words  tears 
streamed  from  his  eyes.  I  had  no  difficulty  now  in 
restraining  him.  He  met  my  look  with  a  gaze  of 
infinite  pathos,  and  talked  on  while  he  wept. 

'  If  you  knew  what  she  has  been  to  me  !  When  she 
married  me  I  was  a  ruined  man  twenty  years  older.  I 


CHRISTOPHERSON  65 

have  given  her  nothing  but  toil  and  care.  You  shall 
know  everything — for  years  and  years  I  have  lived  on 
the  earnings  of  her  labour.  Worse  than  that,  I  have 
starved  and  stinted  her  to  buy  books.  Oh,  the  shame 
of  it !  The  wickedness  of  it !  It  was  my  vice — the 
vice  that  enslaved  me  just  as  if  it  had  been  drinking  or 
gambling.  I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation — though 
every  day  I  cried  shame  upon  myself  and  swore  to  over- 
come it.  She  never  blamed  me  ;  never  a  word — nay,  not 
a  look — of  a  reproach.  I  lived  in  idleness.  I  never  tried 
to  save  her  that  daily  toil  at  the  shop.  Do  you  know 
that  she  worked  in  a  shop  ? — She,  with  her  knowledge 
and  her  refinement  leading  such  a  life  as  that !  Think 
that  I  have  passed  the  shop  a  thousand  times,  coming 
home  with  a  book  in  my  hands  !  I  had  the  heart  to 
pass,  and  to  think  of  her  there  !  Oh  !  Oh  ! ' 

Some  one  was  knocking  at  the  door.  I  went  to  open, 
and  saw  the  landlady,  her  face  set  in  astonishment,  and 
her  arms  full  of  books. 

*  It 's  all  right,'  I  whispered.  *  Put  them  down  on  the 
floor  there  ;  don't  bring  them  in.  An  accident.' 

Christopherson  stood  behind  me  ;  his  look  asked  what 
he  durst  not  speak.  I  said  it  was  nothing,  and  by 
degrees  brought  him  into  a  calmer  state.  Luckily,  the 
doctor  came  before  I  went  away,  and  he  was  able  to 
report  a  slight  improvement.  The  patient  had  slept  a 
little  and  seemed  likely  to  sleep  again.  Christopherson 
asked  me  to  come  again  before  long — there  was  no  one 
else,  he  said,  who  cared  anything  about  him — and  I 
promised  to  call  the  next  day. 

I  did  so,  early  in  the  afternoon.  Christopherson 
must  have  watched  for  my  coming :  before  I  could  raise 
the  knocker  the  door  flew  open,  and  his  face  gleamed 


66  CHRISTOPHERSON 

such  a  greeting  as  astonished  me.  He  grasped  my  hand 
in  both  his. 

'  The  letter  has  come  !     We  are  to  have  the  house.' 

'  And  how  is  Mrs.  Christopherson  ? ' 

'  Better,  much  better,  Heaven  be  thanked  !  She  slept 
almost  from  the  time  when  you  left  yesterday  afternoon 
till  early  this  morning.  The  letter  came  by  the  first 
post,  and  I  told  her — not  the  whole  truth,1  he  added, 
under  his  breath.  '  She  thinks  I  am  to  be  allowed  to 
take  the  books  with  me ;  and  if  you  could  have  seen 
her  smile  of  contentment.  But  they  will  all  be  sold 
and  carried  away  before  she  knows  about  it ;  and  when 
she  sees  that  I  don't  care  a  snap  of  the  fingers ! ' 

He  had  turned  into  the  sitting-room  on  the  ground 
floor.  Walking  about  excitedly,  Christopherson  gloried 
in  the  sacrifice  he  had  made.  Already  a  letter  was 
despatched  to  a  bookseller,  who  would  buy  the  whole 
library  as  it  stood.  But  would  he  not  keep  a  few 
volumes  ?  I  asked.  Surely  there  could  be  no  objection  to 
a  few  shelves  of  books ;  and  how  would  he  live  without 
them  ?  At  first  he  declared  vehemently  that  not  a 
volume  should  be  kept — he  never  wished  to  see  a  book 
again  as  long  as  he  lived.  But  Mrs.  Christopherson  ?  I 
urged.  Would  she  not  be  glad  of  something  to  read 
now  and  then  ?  At  this  he  grew  pensive.  We  dis- 
cussed the  matter,  and  it  was  arranged  that  a  box 
should  be  packed  with  select  volumes  and  taken  down 
into  Norfolk  together  with  the  rest  of  their  luggage. 
Not  even  Mrs.  Keeting  could  object  to  this,  and  I 
strongly  advised  him  to  take  her  permission  for 
granted. 

And  so  it  was  done.  By  discreet  management  the 
piled  volumes  were  stowed  in  bags,  carried  downstairs, 


CHRISTOPHERSON  67 

emptied  into  a  cart,  and  conveyed  away,  so  quietly  that 
the  sick  woman  was  aware  of  nothing.  In  telling  me 
about  it,  Christopherson  crowed  as  I  had  never  heard 
him ;  but  methought  his  eye  avoided  that  part  of  the 
floor  which  had  formerly  been  hidden,  and  in  the  course 
of  our  conversation  he  now  and  then  became  absent, 
with  head  bowed.  Of  the  joy  he  felt  in  his  wife's 
recovery  there  could,  however,  be  no  doubt.  The  crisis 
through  which  he  had  passed  had  made  him,  in  appear- 
ance, a  yet  older  man ;  when  he  declared  his  happiness 
tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  his  head  shook  with  a 
senile  tremor. 

Before  they  left  London,  I  saw  Mrs.  Christopherson 
— a  pale,  thin,  slightly  made  woman,  who  had  never 
been  what  is  called  good-looking,  but  her  face,  if  ever 
face  did  so,  declared  a  brave  and  loyal  spirit.  She  was 
not  joyous,  she  was  not  sad ;  but  in  her  eyes,  as  I 
looked  at  them  again  and  again,  I  read  the  profound 
thankfulness  of  one  to  whom  fate  has  granted  her  soul's 
desire. 


HUMPLEBEE 

THE  school  was  assembled  for  evening  prayers,  some 
threescore  boys  representing  for  the  most  part  the 
well-to-do  middle  class  of  a  manufacturing  county.  At 
either  end  of  the  room  glowed  a  pleasant  fire,  for  it  was 
February  and  the  weather  had  turned  to  frost. 

Silence  reigned,  but  on  all  the  young  faces  turned  to 
where  the  headmaster  sat  at  his  desk  appeared  an 
unwonted  expression,  an  eager  expectancy,  as  though 
something  out  of  the  familiar  routine  were  about  to 
happen.  When  the  master's  voice  at  length  sounded, 
he  did  not  read  from  the  book  before  him ;  gravely, 
slowly,  he  began  to  speak  of  an  event  which  had  that 
day  stirred  the  little  community  with  profound  emotion. 

'Two  of  our  number  are  this  evening  absent. 
Happily,  most  happily,  absent  but  for  a  short  time ;  in 
our  prayers  we  shall  render  thanks  to  the  good  Provi- 
dence which  has  saved  us  from  a  terrible  calamity.  I 
do  not  desire  to  dwell  upon  the  circumstance  that  one 
of  these  boys,  Chadwick,  had  committed  worse  than  an 
imprudence  in  venturing  upon  the  Long  Pond  ;  it  was 
in  disregard  of  my  injunction ;  I  had  distinctly  made  it 
known  that  the  ice  was  still  unsafe.  We  will  speak  no 
more  of  that.  All  we  can  think  of  at  present  is  the  fact 
that  Chadwick  was  on  the  point  of  losing  his  life ;  that 
in  all  human  probability  he  would  have  been  drowned, 


HUMPLEBEE  69 

but  for  the  help  heroically  afforded  him  by  one  of  his 
schoolfellows.  I  say  heroically,  and  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  exaggerate ;  in  the  absence  of  Humplebee  I  may 
declare  that  he  nobly  perilled  his  own  life  to  save  that 
of  another.  It  was  a  splendid  bit  of  courage,  a  fine 
example  of  pluck  and  promptitude  and  vigour.  We 
have  all  cause  this  night  to  be  proud  of  Humplebee.' 

The  solemn  voice  paused.  There  was  an  instant's 
profound  silence.  Then,  from  somewhere  amid  the 
rows  of  listeners,  sounded  a  clear,  boyish  note. 

*  Sir,  may  we  give  three  cheers  for  Humplebee  ?  ' 

'  You  may.' 

The  threescore  leapt  to  their  feet,  and  volleys  of 
cheering  made  the  schoolroom  echo.  Then  the  master 
raised  his  hand,  the  tumult  subsided,  and  after  a  few 
moments  of  agitated  silence,  prayers  began. 

Next  morning  there  appeared  as  usual  at  his  desk  a 
short,  thin,  red-headed  boy  of  sixteen,  whose  plain, 
freckled  face  denoted  good-humour  and  a  certain  in- 
telligence, but  would  never  have  drawn  attention 
amongst  the  livelier. and  comelier  physiognomies  grouped 
about  him.  This  was  Humplebee.  Hitherto  he  had 
been  an  insignificant  member  of  the  school,  one  of 
those  boys  who  excel  neither  at  games  nor  at  lessons, 
of  whom  nothing  is  expected,  and  rarely,  if  ever,  get 
into  trouble,  and  who  are  liked  in  a  rather  contemptuous 
way.  Of  a  sudden  he  shone  glorious  ;  all  tongues  were 
busy  with  him,  all  eyes  regarded  him,  every  one  wished 
for  the  honour  of  his  friendship.  Humplebee  looked 
uncomfortable.  He  had  the  sniffy  beginnings  of  a  cold, 
the  result  of  yesterday's  struggle  in  icy  water,  and  his 
usual  diffident  and  monosyllabic  inclination  were  intensi- 
fied by  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself.  Clappings 


70  HUMPLEBEE 

on  the  shoulder  from  bigger  boys  who  had  been  wont 
to  joke  about  his  name  made  him  flush  nervously ;  to 
be  addressed  as  '  Humpy,'  or  '  Beetle,'  or  '  Buz,'  even 
though  in  a  new  tone,  seemed  to  gratify  him  as  little 
as  before.  It  was  plain  that  Humplebee  would  much 
have  liked  to  be  left  alone.  He  stuck  as  closely  as 
possible  to  his  desk,  and  out  of  school-time  tried  to  steal 
apart  from  the  throng. 

But  an  ordeal  awaited  him.  Early  in  the  afternoon 
there  arrived,  from  a  great  town  not  far  away,  a  well- 
dressed  and  high-complexioned  man,  whose  every  look 
and  accent  declared  commercial  importance.  This  was 
Mr.  Chadwick,  father  of  the  boy  who  had  all  but  been 
drowned.  He  and  the  headmaster  held  private  talk, 
and  presently  they  sent  for  Humplebee.  Merely  to 
enter  the  '  study '  was  at  any  time  Humplebee's  dread  ; 
to  do  so  under  the  present  circumstances  cost  him 
anguish  of  spirit. 

'  Ha  !  here  he  is  ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Chadwick,  in  the 
voice  of  bluff  geniality  which  seemed  to  him  appropriate. 
'  Humplebee,  let  me  shake  hands  with  you  !  Humple- 
bee, I  am  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance ;  prouder 
still  to  thank  you,  to  thank  you,  my  boy ! ' 

The  lad  was  painfully  overcome ;  his  hands  quivered, 
he  stood  like  one  convicted  of  disgraceful  behaviour. 

'  I  think  you  have  heard  of  me,  Humplebee.  Leonard 
has  no  doubt  spoken  to  you  of  his  father.  Perhaps  my 
name  has  reached  you  in  other  ways  ? ' 

*  Yes,  sir,'  faltered  the  boy. 

*  You  mean  that  you  know  me  as  a  public  man  ? ' 
urged   Mr.  Chadwick,  whose  eyes  glimmered  a  hungry 
vanity. 

*  Yes,  sir,'  whispered  Humplebee. 


HUMPLEBEE  71 

'  Ha !  I  see  you  already  take  an  intelligent  interest 
in  things  beyond  school.  They  tell  me  you  are  sixteen, 
Humplebee.  Come,  now ;  what  are  your  ideas  about 
the  future  ?  I  don't  mean '  —  Mr.  Chadwick  rolled  a 
laugh — '  about  the  future  of  mankind,  or  even  the 
future  of  the  English  race ;  you  and  I  may  perhaps 
discuss  such  questions  a  few  years  hence.  In  the  mean- 
time, what  are  your  personal  ambitions  ?  In  brief,  what 
would  you  like  to  be,  Humplebee  ? ' 

Under  the  eye  of  his  master  and  of  the  commercial 
potentate,  Humplebee  stood  voiceless ;  he  gasped  once 
or  twice  like  an  expiring  fish. 

'  Courage,  my  boy,  courage ! '  cried  Mr.  Chadwick. 
*  Your  father,  I  believe,  destines  you  for  commerce.  Is 
that  your  own  wish  ?  Speak  freely.  Speak  as  though  I 
were  a  friend  you  have  known  all  your  life.' 

*  I  should  like  to  please  my  father,  sir,'  jerked  from 
the  boy's  lips. 

*  Good !     Admirable !       That 's    the     spirit    I    like, 
Humplebee.     Then  you  have  no  marked  predilection  ? 
That   was  what  I   wanted  to   discover — well,  well,  we 
shall  see.     Meanwhile,  Humplebee,   get  on  with  your 
arithmetic.     You  are  good  at  arithmetic,  I  am  sure  ?  ' 

'  Not  very,  sir.1 

*  Come,  come,  that 's  your  modesty.     But  I  like  you 
none  the  worse  for  it,  Humplebee.     Well,  well,  get  on 
with  your   work,   my   boy,  and  we  shall  see,  we  shall 
see.' 

Therewith,  to  his  vast  relief,  Humplebee  found  him- 
self dismissed.  Later  in  the  day  he  received  a  summons 
to  the  bedroom  where  Mr.  Chadwick's  son  was  being 
carefully  nursed.  Leonard  Chadwick,  about  the  same 
age  as  his  rescuer,  had  never  deigned  to  pay  much 


72  HUMPLEBEE 

attention  to  Humplebee,  whom  he  regarded  as  stupid 
and  plebeian  ;  but  the  boy's  character  was  marked  by  a 
generous  impulsiveness,  which  came  out  strongly  in  the 
present  circumstances. 

'  Hallo,  Humpy  ! '  he  cried,  raising  himself  up  when 
the  other  entered.  '  So  you  pulled  me  out  of  that 
hole  !  Shake  hands,  Buzzy,  old  fellow  !  You  Ve  had  a 
talk  with  my  governor,  haven't  you  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  him  ? ' 

Humplebee  muttered  something  incoherent. 

'  My  governor 's  going  to  make  your  fortune,  Humpy  ! ' 
cried  Leonard.  '  He  told  me  so,  and  when  he  says  a 
thing  he  means  it.  He  's  going  to  start  you  in  busi- 
ness when  you  leave  school ;  most  likely  you  '11  go  into 
his  own  office.  How  will  you  like  that,  Humpy  ?  My 
governor  thinks  no  end  of  you  ;  says  you  're  a  brick, 
and  so  you  are.  I  shan't  forget  that  you  pulled  me 
out  of  that  hole,  old  chap.  We  shall  be  friends  all 
our  lives,  you  know.  Tell  me  what  you  thought  of  my 
governor  ? ' 

When  he  was  on  his  legs  again,  Leonard  continued 
to  treat  Humplebee  with  grateful,  if  somewhat  con- 
descending, friendliness.  In  the  talks  they  had  together 
the  great  man's  son  continually  expatiated  upon  his 
preserver's  brilliant  prospects.  Beyond  possibility  of 
doubt  Humplebee  would  some  day  be  a  rich  man ;  Mr. 
Chadwick  had  said  so,  and  whatever  he  purposed  came 
to  pass.  To  all  this  Humplebee  listened  in  a  dogged 
sort  of  way,  now  and  then  smiling,  but  seldom  making 
verbal  answer.  In  school  he  was  not  quite  the  same 
boy  as  before  his  exploit ;  he  seemed  duller,  less  atten- 
tive, and  at  times  even  incurred  reproaches  for  work 
ill  done — previously  a  thing  unknown.  When  the 


HUMPLEBEE  73 

holidays  came,  no  boy  was  so  glad  as  Humplebee ;  his 
heart  sang  within  him  as  he  turned  his  back  upon  the 
school  and  began  the  journey  homeward. 

That  home  was  in  the  town  illuminated  by  Mr. 
Chadwick's  commercial  and  municipal  brilliance ;  over  a 
small  draper's  shop  in  one  of  the  outskirt  streets  stood 
the  name  of  Humplebee  the  draper.  About  sixty  years 
of  age,  he  had  known  plenty  of  misfortune  and  sorrows, 
with  scant  admixture  of  happiness.  Nowadays  things 
were  somewhat  better  with  him ;  by  dint  of  severe 
economy  he  had  put  aside  two  or  three  hundred  pounds, 
and  he  was  able,  moreover,  to  give  his  son  (an  only 
child)  what  is  called  a  sound  education.  In  the  limited 
rooms  above  the  shop  there  might  have  been  a  measure 
of  quiet  content  and  hopefulness,  but  for  Mrs.  Humple- 
bee. She,  considerably  younger  than  her  husband,  fretted 
against  their  narrow  circumstances,  and  grudged  the 
money  that  was  being  spent — wasted,  she  called  it — on 
the  boy  Harry. 

From  his  father  Harry  never  heard  talk  of  pecuniary 
troubles,  but  the  mother  lost  no  opportunity  of  letting 
him  know  that  they  were  poor,  miserably  poor ;  and 
adding,  that  if  he  did  not  work  hard  at  school  he  was 
simply  a  cold-hearted  criminal,  and  robbed  his  parents 
of  their  bread. 

But  during  the  last  month  or  two  a  change  had 
come  upon  the  household.  One  day  the  draper  received 
a  visit  from  the  great  Mr.  Chadwick,  who  told  a 
wonderful  story  of  Harry's  heroism,  and  made  proposals 
sounding  so  nobly  generous  that  Mr.  Humplebee  was 
overcome  with  gratitude. 

Harry,  as  his  father  knew,  had  no  vocation  for  the 
shop ;  to  get  him  a  place  in  a  manufacturer's  office 


74  HUMPLEBEE 

seemed  the  best  thing  that  could  be  aimed  at,  and  here 
was  Mr.  Chadwick  talking  of  easy  book-keeping,  quick 
advancement,  and  all  manner  of  vaguely  splendid  possi- 
bilities in  the  future.  The  draper's  joy  proved  Mrs. 
Humplebee's  opportunity.  She  put  forward  a  project 
which  had  of  late  been  constantly  on  her  mind  and  on 
her  lips,  to  wit,  that  they  should  transfer  their  business 
into  larger  premises,  and  give  themselves  a  chance  of 
prosperity.  Humplebee  need  no  longer  hesitate.  He 
had  his  little  capital  to  meet  the  first  expenses,  and  if 
need  arose  there  need  not  be  the  slightest  doubt  that 
Mr.  Chadwick  would  assist  him.  A  kind  gentleman 
Mr.  Chadwick !  Had  he  not  expressly  desired  to  see 
Harry's  mother,  and  had  he  not  assured  her  in  every 
way  possible  of  his  debt  and  gratitude  he  felt  towards 
all  who  bore  the  name  of  Humplebee  ?  The  draper,  if 
he  neglected  his  opportunity,  would  be  an  idiot — a 
mere  idiot. 

So,  when  the  boy  came  home  for  his  holidays  he 
found  two  momentous  things  decided  ;  first,  that  he 
should  forthwith  enter  Mr.  Chadwick's  office ;  secondly, 
that  the  little  shop  should  be  abandoned  and  a  new  one 
taken  in  a  better  neighbourhood. 

Now  Harry  Humplebee  had  in  his  soul  a  secret  desire 
and  a  secret  abhorrence.  Ever  since  he  could  read  his 
delight  had  been  in  books  of  natural  history  ;  beasts, 
birds,  and  fishes  possessed  his  imagination,  and  for  no- 
thing else  in  the  intellectual  world  did  he  really  care. 
With  poor  resources  he  had  learned  a  great  deal  of  his 
beloved  subjects.  Whenever  he  could  get  away  into  the 
fields  he  was  happy  ;  to  lie  still  for  hours  watching  some 
wild  thing,  noting  its  features  and  its  ways,  seemed  to 
him  perfect  enjoyment.  His  treasure  was  a  collection, 


HUMPLEBEE  75 

locked  in  a  cupboard  at  home,  of  eggs,  skeletons,  butter- 
flies, beetles,  and  I  know  not  what.  His  father  regarded 
all  this  as  harmless  amusement,  his  mother  contemp- 
tuously tolerated  it  or,  in  worse  humour,  condemned  it 
as  waste  of  time.  When  at  school  the  boy  had  frequent 
opportunities  of  pursuing  his  study,  for  he  was  in  mid 
country  and  could  wander  as  he  liked  on  free  after- 
noons ;  but  neither  the  headmaster  nor  his  assistant 
thought  it  worth  while  to  pay  heed  to  Humplebee's 
predilection.  True,  it  had  been  noticed  more  than  once 
that  in  writing  an  *  essay  '  he  showed  unusual  observa- 
tion of  natural  things ;  this,  however,  did  not  strike  his 
educators  as  a  matter  of  any  importance ;  it  was  not 
their  business  to  discover  what  Humplebee  could  do,  and 
wished  to  do,  but  to  make  him  do  things  they  regarded 
as  desirable.  Humplebee  was  marked  for  commerce  ;  he 
must  study  compound  interest,  and  be  strong  at  dis- 
count. Yet  the  boy  loathed  every  such  mental  effort, 
and  the  name  of  l  business '  made  him  sick  at  heart. 

How  he  longed  to  unbosom  himself  to  his  father  ! 
And  in  the  first  week  of  his  holiday  he  had  a  chance 
of  doing  so,  a  wonderful  chance,  such  as  had  never 
entered  his  dreams.  The  town  possessed  a  museum  of 
Natural  History,  where,  of  course,  Harry  had  often  spent 
leisure  hours.  Half  a  year  ago  a  happy  chance  had 
brought  him  into  conversation  with  the  curator,  who 
could  not  but  be  struck  by  the  lad's  intelligence,  and 
who  took  an  interest  in  him.  Now  they  met  again; 
they  had  one  or  two  long  talks,  with  the  result  that,  on 
a  Sunday  afternoon,  the  curator  of  the  museum  took  the 
trouble  to  call  upon  Mr.  Humplebee,  to  speak  with  him 
about  his  son.  At  the  museum  was  wanted  a  lad  with 
a  taste  for  natural  history,  to  perform  at  first  certain 


76  HUMPLEBEE 

easy  duties,  with  the  prospect  of  further  advancement 
here  or  elsewhere.  It  seemed  to  the  curator  that  Harry 
was  the  very  boy  for  the  place  ;  would  Mr.  Humplebee 
like  to  consider  this  suggestion  ?  Now,  if  it  had  been 
made  to  him  half  a  year  ago,  such  an  offer  would  have 
seemed  to  Mr.  Humplebee  well  worth  consideration,  and 
he  knew  that  Harry  would  have  heard  of  it  with  delight ; 
as  it  was,  he  could  not  entertain  the  thought  for  a 
moment. 

Impossible  to  run  the  risk  of  offending  Mr.  Chadwick ; 
moreover,  who  could  hesitate  between  the  modest  possi- 
bilities of  the  museum  and  such  a  career  as  waited  the 
lad  under  the  protection  of  his  powerful  friend  ?  With 
nervous  haste  the  draper  explained  how  matters  stood, 
excused  himself,  and  begged  that  not  another  word  on 
the  subject  might  be  spoken  in  his  son's  hearing. 

Harry  Humplebee  knew  what  he  had  lost ;  the  curator, 
in  talk  with  him,  had  already  thrown  out  his  suggestion  ; 
at  their  next  meeting  he  discreetly  made  known  to  the 
boy  that  other  counsels  must  prevail.  For  the  first  time 
Harry  felt  a  vehement  impulse,  prompting  him  to  speak 
on  his  own  behalf,  to  assert  and  to  plead  for  his  own 
desires.  But  courage  failed  him.  He  heard  his  father 
loud  in  praise  of  Mr.  Chadwick,  intent  upon  the  grati- 
tude and  respect  due  to  that  admirable  man.  He  knew 
how  his  mother  would  exclaim  at  the  mere  hint  of  disin- 
clination to  enter  the  great  man's  office.  And  so  he  held 
his  peace,  though  it  cost  him  bitterness  of  heart  and 
even  secret  tears.  A  long,  long  time  passed  before  he 
could  bring  himself  to  enter  again  the  museum  doors. 

He  sat  on  a  stool  in  Mr.  Chadwick's  office,  a  clerk  at 
a  trifling  salary.  Everything,  his  father  reminded  him, 
must  have  a  beginning;  let  him  work  well  and  his 


HUMPLEBEE  77 

progress  would  be  rapid.  Two  years  passed  and  he  was 
in  much  the  same  position ;  his  salary  had  increased  by 
one  half,  but  his  work  remained  the  same,  mechanical, 
dreary,  hateful  to  him  in  its  monotony.  Meanwhile  his 
father's  venture  in  the  new  premises  had  led  to  great 
embarrassments ;  business  did  not  thrive  ;  the  day  came 
when  Mr.  Humplebee,  trembling  and  shamefaced,  felt 
himself  drawn  to  beg  help  of  his  son's  so-called  bene- 
factor. He  came  away  from  the  interview  with  empty 
hands.  Worse  than  that,  he  had  heard  things  about 
Harry  which  darkened  his  mind  with  a  new  anxiety. 

'  I  greatly  fear,1  said  Mr.  Chadwick,  '  that  your  son 
must  seek  a  place  in  some  other  office.  It 's  a  painful 
thing ;  I  wish  I  could  have  kept  him  ;  but  the  fact  of 
the  matter  is  that  he  shows  utter  incapacity.  I  have 
no  fault  to  find  with  him  otherwise  ;  a  good  lad  ;  in  a 
smaller  place  of  business  he  might  do  well  enough.  But 
he's  altogether  below  the  mark  in  an  office  such  as 
mine.  Don't  distress  yourself,  Mr.  Humplebee,  I  beg,  I 
shall  make  it  my  care  to  inquire  for  suitable  openings  ; 
you  shall  hear  from  me — you  shall  hear  from  me.  Pray 
consider  that  your  son  is  under  notice  to  leave  this  day 
month.  As  for  the — other  matter  of  which  you  spoke, 
I  can  only  repeat  that  the  truest  kindness  is  only  to 
refuse  assistance.  I  assure  you  it  is.  The  circumstances 
forbid  it.  Clearly,  what  you  have  to  do  is  to  call 
together  your  creditors,  and  arrive  at"  an  understanding. 
It  is  my  principle  never  to  try  to  prop  up  a  hopeless 
concern  such  as  yours  evidently  is.  Good  day  to  you, 
Mr.  Humplebee ;  good  day.' 

A  year  later  several  things  had  happened.  Mr. 
Humplebee  was  dead ;  his  penniless  widow  had  gone  to 
live  in  another  town  on  the  charity  of  poor  relatives,  and 


78  HUMPLEBEE 

Harry  Humplebee  sat  in  another  office,  drawing  the 
salary  at  which  he  had  begun  under  Mr.  Chadwick,  his 
home  a  wretched  bedroom  in  the  house  of  working-folk. 

It  did  not  appear  to  the  lad  that  he  had  suffered 
any  injustice.  He  knew  his  own  inaptitude  for  the 
higher  kind  of  office  work,  and  he  had  expected 
his  dismissal  by  Mr.  Chadwick  long  before  it  came. 
What  he  did  resent,  and  profoundly,  was  Mr.  Chadwick's 
refusal  to  aid  his  father  in  that  last  death-grapple  with 
ruinous  circumstance.  At  the  worst  moment  Harry 
wrote  a  letter  to  Leonard  Chadwick,  whom  he  had  never 
seen  since  he  left  school.  He  told  in  simple  terms  the 
position  of  his  family,  and,  without  a  word  of  justifying 
reminiscence,  asked  his  schoolfellow  to  help  them  if  he 
could.  To  this  letter  a  reply  came  from  London. 
Leonard  Chadwick  wrote  briefly  and  hurriedly,  but  in 
good-natured  terms  ;  he  was  really  very  sorry  indeed 
that  he  could  do  so  little ;  the  fact  was,  just  now  he 
stood  on  anything  but  good  terms  with  his  father,  who 
kept  him  abominably  short  of  cash.  He  enclosed  five 
pounds,  and,  if  possible,  would  soon  send  more. 

'  Don't  suppose  I  have  forgotten  what  I  owe  you. 
As  soon  as  ever  I  find  myself  in  an  independent  position 
you  shall  have  substantial  proof  of  my  enduring  gratitude. 
Keep  me  informed  of  your  address.1 

Humplebee  made  no  second  application,  and  Leonard 
Chadwick  did  not  again  break  silence. 

The  years  flowed  on.  At  five-and- twenty  Humplebee 
toiled  in  the  same  office,  but  he  could  congratulate  him- 
self on  a  certain  progress ;  by  dogged  resolve  he  had 
acquired  something  like  efficiency  in  the  duties  of  a 
commercial  clerk,  and  the  salary  he  now  earned  allowed 
him  to  contribute  to  the  support  of  his  mother.  More 


HUMPLEBEE  79 

or  less  reconciled  to  the  day's  labour,  he  had  resumed  in 
leisure  hours  his  favourite  study  ;  a  free  library  supplied 
him  with  useful  books,  and  whenever  it  was  possible 
he  went  his  way  into  the  fields,  searching,  collecting, 
observing.  But  his  life  had  another  interest,  which 
threatened  rivalry  to  this  intellectual  pursuit.  Humple- 
bee  had  set  eyes  upon  the  maiden  destined  to  be  his 
heart's  desire ;  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  fellow-clerk, 
a  man  who  had  grown  grey  in  service  of  the  ledger ; 
timidly  he  sought  to  win  her  kindness,  as  yet  scarce 
daring  to  hope,  dreaming  only  of  some  happy  change  of 
position  which  might  encourage  him  to  speak.  The  girl 
was  as  timid  as  himself;  she  had  a  face  of  homely 
prettiness,  a  mind  uncultured  but  sympathetic ;  absorbed 
in  domestic  cares,  with  few  acquaintances,  she  led  the 
simplest  of  lives,  and  would  have  been  all  but  content  to 
live  on  in  gentle  hope  for  a  score  of  years.  The  two 
were  beginning  to  understand  each  other,  for  their 
silence  was  more  eloquent  than  their  speech. 

One  summer  day — the  last  day  of  his  brief  holiday — 
Humplebee  was  returning  by  train  from  a  visit  to  his 
mother.  Alone  in  a  third-class  carriage,  seeming  to  read 
a  newspaper,  but  in  truth  dreaming  of  a  face  he  hoped 
to  see  in  a  few  hours,  he  suddenly  found  himself  jerked 
out  of  his  seat,  flung  violently  forward,  bumped  on  the 
floor,  and  last  of  all  rolled  into  a  sort  of  bundle,  he 
knew  not  where.  Recovering  from  a  daze,  he  said  to 
himself,  *  Why,  this  is  an  accident — a  collision  ! ' 
Then  he  tried  to  unroll  himself,  and  in  the  effort  found 
that  one  of  his  arms  was  useless  ;  more  than  that,  it 
pained  him  horribly.  He  stood  up  and  tottered  on  to 
the  seat.  Then  the  carriage-door  opened,  and  a  voice 
shouted — 


80  HUMPLEBEE 

'  Anybody  hurt  here  ? ' 

*  I  think  my  arm  is  broken,'  answered  Humplebee. 
Two    men    helped    him    to    alight.     The  train  had 

stopped  just  outside  a  small  station  ;  on  a  cross  line  in 
front  of  the  engine  lay  a  goods  truck  smashed  to  pieces  ; 
people  were  rushing  about  with  cries  and  gesticulations. 
'  Yes,  the  arm  is  broken,'  remarked  one  of  the  men  who 
had  assisted  Humplebee.  '  It  looks  as  if  you  were  the 
only  passenger  injured.'  That  proved,  indeed,  to  be  the 
case ;  no  one  else  had  suffered  more  than  a  jolt  or  a 
bruise.  The  crowd  clustered  about  this  hero  of  the 
broken  arm,  expressing  sympathy  and  offering  sugges- 
tions. Among  them  was  a  well-dressed  young  man, 
rather  good-looking  and  of  lively  demeanour,  who 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  excitement;  he,  after  gazing  fixedly 
at  the  pain-stricken  face,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of 
wonder — 

*  By  jove  !  it 's  Humplebee  ! ' 

The  sufferer  turned  towards  him  who  spoke ;  his 
eyes  brightened,  for  he  recognised  the  face  of  Leonard 
Chadwick.  Neither  one  nor  the  other  had  greatly 
altered  during  the  past  ten  years  ;  they  presented  exactly 
the  same  contrast  of  personal  characteristic  as  when  they 
were  at  school  together.  With  vehement  friendliness 
Chadwick  at  once  took  upon  himself  the  care  of  the 
injured  clerk.  He  shouted  for  a  cab,  he  found  out 
where  the  nearest  doctor  lived ;  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  had  his  frirnd  under  the  doctor's  roof.  When  the 
fracture  had  been  set  and  bandaged,  they  travelled  on 
together  to  their  native  town,  only  a  few  miles  distant, 
Humplebee  knowing  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the 
luxury  of  a  first-class  compartment.  On  their  way 
Chadwick  talked  exuberantly.  He  was  delighted  at  this 


HUMPLEBEE  81 

meeting ;  why,  one  of  his  purposes  in  coming  north  had 
been  to  search  out  Humplebee,  whom  he  had  so  long 
scandalously  neglected. 

*  The  fact  is,  I  Ve  been  going  through  queer  times 
myself.  The  governor  and  I  can't  get  along  together ; 
we  quarrelled  years  ago,  there  's  not  much  chance  of  our 
making  it  up.  I  Ve  no  doubt  that  was  the  real  reason 
of  his  dismissing  you  from  his  office — a  mean  thing ! 
The  governor 's  a  fine  old  boy,  but  he  has  his  nasty  side. 
He  's  very  tight  about  money,  and  I — well,  I  'm  a  bit 
too  much  the  other  way,  no  doubt.  He's  kept  me  in 
low  water,  confound  him  !  But  I  'm  independent  of 
him  now.  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow,  you  '11 
feel  better  able  to  talk.  Expect  me  at  eleven  in  the 
morning.' 

Through  a  night  of  physical  suffering  Humplebee 
was  supported  by  a  new  hope.  Chadwick  the  son, 
warm-hearted  and  generous,  made  a  strong  contrast 
with  Chadwick  the  father,  pompous  and  insincere. 
When  the  young  man  spoke  of  his  abiding  gratitude 
there  was  no  possibility  of  distrusting  him,  his  voice 
rang  true,  and  his  handsome  features  wore  a  delightful 
frankness.  Punctual  to  his  appointment,  Leonard 
appeared  next  morning.  He  entered  the  poor  lodging 
as  if  it  had  been  a  luxurious  residence,  talked  suavely 
and  gaily  with  the  landlady,  who  was  tending  her 
invalid,  and,  when  alone  with  his  old  schoolfellow, 
launched  into  a  detailed  account  of  a  great  enterprise  in 
which  he  was  concerned.  Not  long  ago  he  had  become 
acquainted  with  one  Geldershaw,  a  man  somewhat  older 
than  himself,  personally  most  attractive,  and  very  keen 
in  business.  Geldershaw  had  just  been  appointed 
London  representative  of  a  great  manufacturing  firm  in 


82  HUMPLEBEE 

Germany.  It  was  a  most  profitable  undertaking,  and, 
out  of  pure  friendship,  he  had  offered  a  share  in  the 
business  to  Leonard  Chad  wick. 

'  Of  course,  I  put  money  into  it.  The  fact  is,  I  have 
dropped  in  for  a  few  thousands  from  a  good  old  aunt, 
who  has  been  awfully  kind  to  me  since  the  governor  and 
I  fell  out.  I  couldn't  possibly  have  found  a  better 
investment,  it  means  eight  or  nine  per  cent.,  my  boy,  at 
the  very  least !  And  look  here,  Humplebee,  of  course 
you  can  keep  books  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  can,'  answered  the  listener  conscientiously. 

'  Then,  old  fellow,  a  first-rate  place  is  open  to  you. 
We  want  some  one  we  can  thoroughly  trust ;  you  're  the 
very  man  Geldershaw  had  in  his  eye.  Would  you  mind 
telling  me  what  screw  you  get  at  present  ? ' 

*  Two  pounds  ten  a  week.' 

'  Ha,  ha  ! '  laughed  Chadwick  exultantly.  *  With  us 
you  shall  begin  at  double  the  figure,  and  I  '11  see  to  it 
that  you  have  a  rise  after  the  first  year.  What 's  more, 
Humplebee,  as  soon  as  we  get  fairly  going,  I  promise 
you  a  share  in  the  business.  Don't  say  a  word,  old  boy  ! 
My  governor  treated  you  abominably.  I  've  been  in 
your  debt  for  ten  years  or  so,  as  you  know  very  well, 
and  often  enough  I  've  felt  deucedly  ashamed  of  myself. 
Five  pounds  a  week  to  begin  with,  and  a  certainty  of 
a  comfortable  interest  in  a  thriving  affair !  Come,  now, 
is  it  agreed  ? ' 

Humplebee  forgot  his  pain  ;  he  felt  ready  to  j  ump 
out  of  bed  and  travel  straightway  to  London. 

'  And  you  know,'  pursued  Chadwick,  when  they  had 
shaken  hands  warmly,  *  that  you  have  a  claim  for 
damages  on  the  railway  company.  Leave  that  to  me ; 
I  '11  put  the  thing  in  train  at  once,  through  my  own 


HUMPLEBEE  83 

solicitor.  You  shall  pocket  a  substantial  sum,  my  boy  ! 
Well,  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  off;  I've  got  my  hands  full 
of  business.  Quite  a  new  thing  for  me  to  have  some- 
thing serious  to  do ;  I  enjoy  it !  If  I  can't  see  you 
again  before  I  go  back  to  town,  you  shall  hear  from  me 
in  a  day  or  two.  Here 's  my  London  address.  Chuck 
up  your  place  here  at  once,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  us  as 
soon  as  your  arm  's  all  right.  Geldershaw  shall  write 
you  a  formal  engagement.' 

Happily  his  broken  arm  was  the  left.  Humplebee 
could  use  his  right  hand,  and  did  so,  very  soon  after 
Chad  wick's  departure,  to  send  an  account  of  all  that 
had  befallen  him  to  his  friend  Mary  Bowes.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  written  to  her.  His  letter  was 
couched  in  terms  of  studious  respect,  with  many 
apologies  for  the  liberty  he  took.  Of  the  accident  he 
made  light — a  few  days  would  see  him  re-established — 
but  he  dwelt  with  some  emphasis  upon  the  meeting  with 
Leonard  Chadwick,  and  what  had  resulted  from  it. 

*  I  did  him  a  good  turn  once,  when  we  were  at  school 
together.  He  is  a  good,  warm-hearted  fellow,  and  has 
sought  this  opportunity  of  showing  that  he  remembered 
the  old  time.' 

Thus  did  Humplebee  refer  to  the  great  event  of  his 
boyhood.  Having  despatched  the  letter,  he  waited 
feverishly  for  Miss  Bowes'  reply ;  but  days  passed,  and 
still  he  waited  in  vain.  Agitation  delayed  his  recovery ; 
he  was  suffering  as  he  had  never  suffered  in  his  life,  when 
there  came  a  letter  from  London,  signed  with  the  name 
of  Geldershaw,  repeating  in  formal  terms  the  offer  made 
to  him  by  Leonard  Chadwick,  and  requesting  his 
immediate  acceptance  or  refusal.  This  plucked  him  out 
of  his  despondent  state,  and  spurred  him  to  action. 


84  HUMPLEBEE 

With  the  help  of  his  landlady  he  dressed  himself,  and, 
having  concealed  his  bandaged  arm  as  well  as  possible, 
drove  in  a  cab  to  Miss  Bowes1  dwelling.  The  hour 
being  before  noon,  he  was  almost  sure  to  find  Mary  at 
home,  and  alone.  Trembling  with  bodily  weakness  and 
the  conflict  of  emotions,  he  rang  the  door  bell.  To  his 
consternation  there  appeared  Mary's  father. 

'  Hallo  !  Humplebee  ! '  cried  Mr.  Bowes,  surprised 
but  friendly.  '  Why,  I  was  just  going  to  write  to  you. 
Mary  has  had  scarlet  fever.  I've  been  so  busy  these 
last  ten  days,  I  couldn't  even  inquire  after  you.  Of 
course,  I  saw  about  your  smash  in  the  newspaper ;  how 
are  you  getting  on  ? ' 

The  man  with  the  bandaged  arm  could  not  utter 
a  word.  Horror-stricken  he  stared  at  Mr.  Bowes,  who 
had  begun  to  express  a  doubt  whether  it  would  be 
prudent  for  him  to  enter  the  house. 

Mary  is  convalescent ;  the  anxiety 's  all  over, 
but ' 

Humplebee  suddenly  seized  the  speaker's  hand,  and  in 
confused  words  expressed  vehement  joy.  They  talked 
for  a  few  minutes,  parted  with  cordiality,  and  Humple- 
bee went  home  again  to  recover  from  his  excitement. 

A  note  from  his  employers  had  replied  in  terms  of 
decent  condolence  to  the  message  by  which  he  explained 
his  enforced  absence.  To-day  he  wrote  to  the  principal, 
announcing  his  intention  of  resigning  his  post  in  their 
office.  The  response,  delivered  within  a  few  hours,  was 
admirably  brief  and  to  the  point.  Mr.  Humplebee's 
place  had,  of  course,  been  already  taken  temporarily  by 
another  clerk ;  it  would  have  been  held  open  for  him, 
but,  in  view  of  his  decision,  the  firm  had  merely  to 
request  that  he  would  acknowledge  the  cheque  enclosed 


HUMPLEBEE  85 

in  payment  of  his  salary  up  to  date.  Not  without  some 
shaking  of  the  hand  did  Humplebee  pen  this  receipt ; 
for  a  moment  something  seemed  to  come  between  him 
and  the  daylight,  and  a  heaviness  oppressed  his  inner 
man.  But  already  he  had  despatched  to  London  his 
formal  acceptance  of  the  post  at  five  pounds  a  week,  and 
in  thinking  of  it  his  heart  grew  joyous.  Two  hundred 
and  sixty  pounds  a  year  !  It  was  beyond  the  hope  of 
his  most  fantastic  day-dreams.  He  was  a  made  man, 
secure  for  ever  against  fears  and  worries.  He  was  a 
man  of  substance,  and  need  no  longer  shrink  from 
making  known  the  hope  which  ruled  his  life. 

A  second  letter  was  written  to  Mary  Bowes ;  but  not 
till  many  copies  had  been  made  was  it  at  length 
despatched.  The  writer  declared  that  he  looked  for  no 
reply  until  Mary  was  quite  herself  again ;  he  begged 
only  that  she  would  reflect,  meanwhile,  upon  what  he 
had  said,  reflect  with  all  her  indulgence,  all  her  native 
goodness  and  gentleness.  And,  indeed,  there  elapsed 
nearly  a  fortnight  before  the  answer  came ;  and  to 
Humplebee  it  seemed  an  endless  succession  of  tormenting 
days.  Then 

Humplebee  behaved  like  one  distracted.  His  land- 
lady in  good  earnest  thought  he  had  gone  crazy,  and 
was  only  reassured  when  he  revealed  to  her  what  had 
happened.  Mary  Bowes  was  to  be  his  wife !  They 
must  wait  for  a  year  and  a  half ;  Mary  could  not  leave 
her  father  quite  alone,  but  in  a  year  and  a  half  Mr. 
Bowes,  who  was  an  oldish  man,  would  be  able  to  retire 
on  the  modest  fruit  of  his  economies,  and  all  three  could 
live  together  in  London.  *  What,1  cried  Humplebee, 
*  was  eighteen  months  ?  It  would  allow  him  to  save 
enough  out  of  his  noble  salary  to  start  housekeeping 


86  HUMPLEBEE 

with  something  more  than  comfort.  Blessed  be  the 
name  of  Chadwick  ! ' 

When  his  arm  was  once  more  sound,  and  Mary's 
health  quite  recovered,  they  met.  In  their  long,  long 
talk  Humplebee  was  led  to  tell  the  story  of  that 
winter  day  when  he  saved  Leonard  Chadwick's  life ;  he 
related,  too,  all  that  had  ensued  upon  his  acquaintance 
with  the  great  Mr.  Chadwick,  memories  which  would 
never  lose  all  their  bitterness.  Mary  was  moved  to 
tears,  and  her  tears  were  dried  by  indignation.  But 
they  agreed  that  Leonard,  after  all,  made  some  atone- 
ment for  his  father's  heartless  behaviour.  Humplebee 
showed  a  letter  that  had  come  from  young  Chadwick 
a  day  or  two  ago ;  every  line  spoke  generosity  of  spirit. 
'  When,'  he  asked,  '  might  they  expect  their  new  book- 
keeper. They  were  in  full  swing ;  business  promised 
magnificently.  As  yet,  they  had  only  a  temporary  office, 
but  Geldershaw  was  in  treaty  for  fine  premises  in  the 
city.  The  sooner  Humplebee  arrived  the  better  ;  fortune 
awaited  him.' 

It  was  decided  that  he  should  leave  for  London  in 
two  days. 

The  next  evening  he  came  to  spend  an  hour  or  two 
with  Mary  and  her  father.  On  entering  the  room  he 
at  once  observed  something  strange  in  the  looks  with 
which  he  was  greeted.  Mary  had  a  pale,  miserable  air, 
and  could  hardly  speak.  Mr.  Bowes,  after  looking  at 
him  fixedly  for  a  moment,  exclaimed — 

'  Have  you  seen  to-day's  paper  ? ' 

'I've  been  too  busy,'  he  replied.  'What  has 
happened  ? ' 

'  Isn't  your  London  man  called  Geldershaw  ? ' 


HUMPLEBEE  87 

'  Yes,1  murmured  Humplebee,  with  a  sinking  of  the 
heart. 

*  Well,  the  police  are  after  him  ;  he  has  bolted.     It 's 
a  long-firm  swindle  that  he's  been  up  to.     You  know 
what  that  means  ?      Obtaining  goods  on  false  credit,  and 
raising  money  on  them.     What 's  more,  young  Chadwick 
is  arrested;  he  came  before  the  magistrates  yesterday, 
charged  with  being  an  accomplice.     Here  it  is ;  read  it 
for  yourself.' 

Humplebee  dropped  into  a  chair.  When  his  eyes 
undazzled,  he  read  the  full  report  which  Mr.  Bowes  had 
summarised.  It  was  the  death-blow  of  his  hopes. 

'  Leonard  Chadwick  has  been  a  victim,  not  a  swindler,1 
sounded  from  him  in  a  feeble  voice.  '  You  see,  he  says 
that  Geldershaw  has  robbed  him  of  all  his  money — that 
he  is  ruined.1 

4  He  says  so,1  remarked  Mr.  Bowes  with  angry  irony. 

*  I  believe  him,'  said  Humplebee. 

His  eyes  sought  Mary's.  The  girl  regarded  him 
steadily,  and  she  spoke  in  a  low  firm  voice — 

*  I,  too,  believe  him.1 

*  Whether  or  no,1  said  Mr.  Bowes,  thrusting  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  'the  upshot  of  it  is,  Humplebee,  that 
you  've  lost  a  good  place  through  trusting  him.      I  had 
my  doubts;  but  you  were  in  a  hurry,  and  didn't  ask 
advice.     If  this  had  happened  a  week  later,  the  police 
would  have  laid  hands  on  you  as  well.1 

*  So   there 's    something    to   be   thankful  for,   at  all 
events,'  said  Mary. 

Again  Humplebee  met  her  eyes.  He  saw  that  she 
would  not  forsake  him. 

He  had  to  begin  life  over  again — that  was  all. 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

IT  was  market  day  in  the  little  town ;  at  one  o'clock  a 
rustic  company  besieged  the  table  of  the  Greyhound, 
lured  by  savoury  odours  and  the  frothing  of  amber  ale. 
Apart  from  three  frequenters  of  the  ordinary,  in  a  small 
room  prepared  for  overflow,  sat  two  persons  of  a  different 
stamp — a  middle-aged  man,  bald,  meagre,  unimpressive, 
but  wholly  respectable  in  bearing  and  apparel,  and  a 
girl,  evidently  his  daughter,  who  had  the  look  of  the 
latter  twenties,  her  plain  dress  harmonising  with  a  sub- 
dued charm  of  feature  and  a  timidity  of  manner  not 
ungraceful.  Whilst  waiting  for  their  meal  they  conversed 
in  an  undertone ;  their  brief  remarks  and  ejaculations 
told  of  a  long  morning's  ramble  from  the  seaside  resort 
some  miles  away  ;  in  their  quiet  fashion  they  seemed  to 
have  enjoyed  themselves,  and  dinner  at  an  inn  evidently 
struck  them  as  something  of  an  escapade.  Rather 
awkwardly  the  girl  arranged  a  handful  of  wild  flowers 
which  she  had  gathered,  and  put  them  for  refreshment 
into  a  tumbler  of  water ;  when  a  woman  entered  with 
viands,  silence  fell  upon  the  two ;  after  hesitations  and 
mutual  glances,  they  began  to  eat  with  nervous  appetite. 
Scarcely  was  their  modest  confidence  restored,  when 
in  the  doorway  sounded  a  virile  voice,  gaily  humming, 
and  they  became  aware  of  a  tall  young  man,  red-headed, 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  89 

anything  but  handsome,  flushed  and  perspiring  from  the 
sunny  road  ;  his  open  jacket  showed  a  blue  cotton  shirt 
without  waistcoat,  in  his  hand  was  a  shabby  straw  hat, 
and  thick  dust  covered  his  boots.  One  would  have 
judged  him  a  tourist  of  the  noisier  class,  and  his  rather 
loud  '  Good  morning ! '  as  he  entered  the  room  seemed 
a  serious  menace  to  privacy ;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
rapid  buttoning  of  his  coat,  and  the  quiet  choice  of  a 
seat  as  far  as  possible  from  the  two  guests  whom  his 
arrival  disturbed,  indicated  a  certain  tact.  His  greeting 
had  met  with  the  merest  murmur  of  reply ;  their  eyes 
on  their  plates,  father  and  daughter  resolutely  disregarded 
him  ;  yet  he  ventured  to  speak  again. 

'  They  Ye  busy  here  to-day.  Not  a  seat  to  be  had  in 
the  other  room.' 

It  was  apologetic  in  intention,  and  not  rudely  spoken. 
After  a  moment's  delay  the  bald,  respectable  man  made 
a  curt  response. 

'  This  room  is  public,  I  believe.1 

The  intruder  held  his  peace.  But  more  than  once 
he  glanced  at  the  girl,  and  after  each  furtive  scrutiny 
his  plain  visage  manifested  some  disturbance,  a  troubled 
thoughtfulness.  His  one  look  at  the  mute  parent  was 
from  beneath  contemptuous  eyebrows. 

Very  soon  another  guest  appeared,  a  massive  agri- 
cultural man,  who  descended  upon  a  creaking  chair  and 
growled  a  remark  about  the  hot  weather.  With  him 
the  red-haired  pedestrian  struck  into  talk.  Their  topic 
was  beer.  Uncommonly  good,  they  agreed,  the  local 
brew,  and  each  called  for  a  second  pint.  What,  they 
asked  in  concert,  would  England  be  without  her  ale  ? 
Shame  on  the  base  traffickers  who  enfeebled  or  poisoned 
this  noble  liquor !  And  how  cool  it  was — ah  !  The 


90  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

right  sort  of  cellar !  He  of  the  red  hair  hinted  at  a 
third  pewter. 

These  two  were  still  but  midway  in  their  stout  attack 
on  meat  and  drink,  when  father  and  daughter,  having 
exchanged  a  few  whispers,  rose  to  depart.  After  leaving 
the  room,  the  girl  remembered  that  she  had  left  her 
flowers  behind ;  she  durst  not  return  for  them,  and, 
knowing  her  father  would  dislike  to  do  so,  said  nothing 
about  the  matter. 

*  A  pity ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Whiston  (that  was  his 
respectable  name)  as  they  strolled  away.  '  It  looked  at 
first  as  if  we  should  have  such  a  nice  quiet  dinner.' 

'  I  enjoyed  it  all  the  same,'  replied  his  companion, 
whose  name  was  Rose. 

'  That  abominable  habit  of  drinking  ! '  added  Mr. 
Whiston  austerely.  He  himself  had  quaffed  water,  as 
always.  '  Their  ale,  indeed  !  See  the  coarse,  gross 
creatures  it  produces  ! ' 

He  shuddered.  Rose,  however,  seemed  less  consentient 
than  usual.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  ground ;  her  lips 
were  closed  with  a  certain  firmness.  When  she  spoke, 
it  was  on  quite  another  subject. 

They  were  Londoners.  Mr.  Whiston  held  the  posi- 
tion of  draughtsman  in  the  office  of  a  geographical 
publisher ;  though  his  income  was  small,  he  had  always 
practised  a  rigid  economy,  and  the  possession  of  a 
modest  private  capital  put  him  beyond  fear  of  reverses. 
Profoundly  conscious  of  social  limits,  he  felt  it  a  subject 
for  gratitude  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of 
in  his  calling,  which  he  might  fairly  regard  as  a  pro- 
fession, and  he  nursed  this  sense  of  respectability  as  much 
on  his  daughter's  behalf  as  on  his  own.  Rose  was  an  only 
child  ;  her  mother  had  been  dead  for  years  ;  her  kinsfolk 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  91 

on  both  sides  laid  claim  to  the  title  of  gentlefolk,  but 
supported  it  on  the  narrowest  margin  of  independence. 
The  girl  had  grown  up  in  an  atmosphere  unfavourable  to 
mental  development,  but  she  had  received  a  fairly  good 
education,  and  nature  had  dowered  her  with  intelligence. 
A  sense  of  her  father's  conscientiousness  and  of  his  true 
affection  forbade  her  to  criticise  openly  the  principles  on 
which  he  had  directed  her  life ;  hence  a  habit  of  solitary 
meditation,  which  half  fostered,  yet  half  opposed,  the 
gentle  diffidence  of  Rose's  character. 

Mr.  Whiston  shrank  from  society,  ceaselessly  afraid 
of  receiving  less  than  his  due ;  privately,  meanwhile,  he 
deplored  the  narrowness  of  the  social  opportunities 
granted  to  his  daughter,  and  was  for  ever  forming 
schemes  for  her  advantage — schemes  which  never  passed 
beyond  the  stage  of  nervous  speculation.  They  in- 
habited a  little  house  in  a  western  suburb,  a  house 
illumined  with  every  domestic  virtue ;  but  scarcely  a 
dozen  persons  crossed  the  threshold  within  a  twelve- 
month. Rose's  two  or  three  friends  were,  like  herself, 
mistrustful  of  the  world.  One  of  them  had  lately 
married  after  a  very  long  engagement,  and  Rose  still 
trembled  from  the  excitement  of  that  occasion,  still 
debated  fearfully  with  herself  on  the  bride's  chances  of 
happiness.  Her  own  marriage  was  an  event  so  incon- 
ceivable that  merely  to  glance  at  the  thought  appeared 
half  immodest  and  wholly  irrational. 

Every  winter  Mr.  Whiston  talked  of  new  places  which 
he  and  Rose  would  visit  when  the  holidays  came  round ; 
every  summer  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of  adven- 
turous novelty,  and  ended  by  proposing  a  return  to  the 
same  western  seaside-town,  to  the  familiar  lodgings.  The 
climate  suited  neither  him  nor  his  daughter,  who  both 


92  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

needed  physical  as  well  as  moral  bracing ;  but  they  only 
thought  of  this  on  finding  themselves  at  home  again, 
with  another  long  year  of  monotony  before  them.  And 
it  was  so  good  to  feel  welcome,  respected  ;  to  receive 
the  smiling  reverences  of  tradesfolk ;  to  talk  with  just  a 
little  well-bred  condescension,  sure  that  it  would  be 
appreciated.  Mr.  Whiston  savoured  these  things,  and 
Rose  in  this  respect  was  not  wholly  unlike  him. 

To-day  was  the  last  of  their  vacation.  The  weather 
had  been  magnificent  throughout ;  Rose's  cheeks  were 
more  than  touched  by  the  sun,  greatly  to  the  advantage 
of  her  unpretending  comeliness.  She  was  a  typical 
English  maiden,  rather  tall,  shapely  rather  than  graceful, 
her  head  generally  bent,  her  movements  always  betraying 
the  diffidence  of  solitary  habit.  The  lips  were  her  finest 
feature,  their  perfect  outline  indicating  sweetness  without 
feebleness  of  character.  Such  a  girl  is  at  her  best 
towards  the  stroke  of  thirty.  Rose  had  begun  to  know 
herself;  she  needed  only  opportunity  to  act  upon  her 
knowledge. 

A  train  would  take  them  back  to  the  seaside.  At 
the  railway  station  Rose  seated  herself  on  a  shaded  part 
of  the  platform,  whilst  her  father,  who  was  exceedingly 
short  of  sight,  peered  over  publications  on  the  bookstall. 
Rather  tired  after  her  walk,  the  girl  was  dreamily  tracing 
a  pattern  with  the  point  of  her  parasol,  when  some  one 
advanced  and  stood  immediately  in  front  of  her.  Startled, 
she  looked  up,  and  recognised  the  red-haired  stranger  of 
the  inn. 

'  You  left  these  flowers  in  a  glass  of  water  on  the 
table.  I  hope  I'm  not  doing  a  rude  thing  in  asking 
whether  they  were  left  by  accident.' 

He  had  the  flowers  in  his  hand,  their  stems  carefully 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  93 

protected  by  a  piece  of  paper.  For  a  moment  Rose  was 
incapable  of  replying ;  she  looked  at  the  speaker ;  she 
felt  her  cheeks  burn ;  in  utter  embarrassment  she  said 
she  knew  not  what. 

'  Oh  ! thank  you  !  I  forgot  them.  It 's  very 

kind.' 

Her  hand  touched  his  as  she  took  the  bouquet  from 
him.  Without  another  word  the  man  turned  and  strode 
away. 

Mr.  Whiston  had  seen  nothing  of  this.  When  he 
approached,  Rose  held  up  the  flowers  with  a  laugh. 

'  Wasn't  it  kind  ?  I  forgot  them,  you  know,  and 
some  one  from  the  inn  came  looking  for  me.1 

*  Very  good  of  them,  very,1  replied  her  father  graciously. 
*A  very  nice  inn,  that.  We'll  go  again — some  day. 
One  likes  to  encourage  such  civility  ;  it 's  rare  nowadays.1 

He  of  the  red  hair  travelled  by  the  same  train,  though 
not  in  the  same  carriage.  Rose  caught  sight  of  him  at 
the  seaside  station.  She  was  vexed  with  herself  for 
having  so  scantily  acknowledged  his  kindness  ;  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  not  really  thanked  him  at  all ;  how 
absurd,  at  her  age,  to  be  incapable  of  common  self- 
command  !  At  the  same  time  she  kept  thinking  of  her 
father's  phrase, '  coarse,  gross  creatures,1  and  it  vexed  her 
even  more  than  her  own  ill  behaviour.  The  stranger 
was  certainly  not  coarse,  far  from  gross.  Even  his  talk 
about  beer  (she  remembered  every  word  of  it)  had  been 
amusing  rather  than  offensive.  Was  he  a  '  gentleman '  ? 
The  question  agitated  her ;  it  involved  so  technical  a 
definition,  and  she  felt  so  doubtful  as  to  the  reply. 
Beyond  doubt  he  had  acted  in  a  gentlemanly  way ;  but 
his  voice  lacked  something.  Coarse  ?  Gross  ?  No,  no, 
no !  Really,  her  father  was  very  severe,  not  to  say 


94  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

uncharitable.  But  perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  the  heavy 
agricultural  man  ;  oh,  he  must  have  been  ! 

Of  a  sudden  she  felt  very  weary.  At  the  lodgings 
she  sat  down  in  her  bedroom,  and  gazed  through  the 
open  window  at  the  sea.  A  sense  of  discouragement, 
hitherto  almost  unknown,  had  fallen  upon  her ;  it  spoilt 
the  blue  sky  and  the  soft  horizon.  She  thought  rather 
drearily  of  the  town  ward  journey  to-morrow,  of  her 
home  in  the  suburbs,  of  the  endless  monotony  that 
awaited  her.  The  flowers  lay  on  her  lap;  she  smelt 
them,  dreamed  over  them.  And  then — strange  incon- 
gruity— she  thought  of  beer  ! 

Between  tea  and  supper  she  and  her  father  rested 
on  the  beach.  Mr.  Whiston  was  reading.  Rose  pre- 
tended to  turn  the  leaves  of  a  book.  Of  a  sudden,  as 
unexpectedly  to  herself  as  to  her  companion,  she  broke 
silence. 

'  Don't  you  think,  father,  that  we  are  too  much 
afraid  of  talking  with  strangers  ? ' 

'  Too  much  afraid  ?  ' 

Mr.  Whiston  was  puzzled.  He  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  incident  at  the  dinner-table. 

*  I  mean — what  harm  is  there  in  having  a  little  con- 
versation when  one  is  away  from  home?     At  the  inn 
to-day,  you  know,  I  can't  help  thinking  we  were  rather — 
perhaps  a  little  too  silent.1 

*  My  dear  Rose,  did  you  want  to  talk  about  beer  ?  ' 
She    reddened,    but    answered     all     the    more     em- 
phatically. 

'  Of  course  not.  But,  when  the  first  gentleman  came 
in,  wouldn't  it  have  been  natural  to  exchange  a  few 
friendly  words  ?  I  'm  sure  he  wouldn't  have  talked  of 
beer  to  us."1 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  95 

*  The  gentleman  ?     I  saw  no  gentleman,  my  dear.      I 
suppose    he  was   a    small  clerk,  or  something   of  the 
sort,  and  he  had  no  business  whatever  to  address  us.' 

'  Oh,  but  he  only  said  good  morning,  and  apologised 
for  sitting  at  our  table.  He  needn't  have  apologised  at 
all.' 

'  Precisely.  That  is  just  what  I  mean,'  said  Mr. 
Whiston  with  self-satisfaction.  '  My  dear  Rose,  if  I 
had  been  alone,  I  might  perhaps  have  talked  a  little, 
but  with  you  it  was  impossible.  One  cannot  be  too 
careful.  A  man  like  that  will  take  all  sorts  of  liberties. 
One  has  to  keep  such  people  at  a  distance. 

A  moment's  pause,  then  Rose  spoke  with  unusual 
decision — 

'  I  feel  quite  sure,  father,  that  he  would  not  have 
taken  liberties.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  knew  quite  well 
how  to  behave  himself.' 

Mr.  Whiston  grew  still  more  puzzled.  He  closed  his 
book  to  meditate  this  new  problem. 

*  One  has  to  lay  down  rules,'  fell  from  him  at  length, 
sententiously.      '  Our  position,  Rose,    as    I  have  often 
explained,  is  a  delicate  one.     A  lady  in  circumstances 
such  as  yours  cannot  exercise  too  much  caution.     Your 
natural  associates  are  in  the  world  of  wealth  ;  unhappily, 
I  cannot  make  you  wealthy.     We   have  to  guard  our 
self-respect,  my  dear  child.    Really,  it  is  not  safe  to  talk 
with  strangers — least  of  all  at  an  inn.     And  you  have 
only  to  remember  that  disgusting    conversation  about 
beer!' 

Rose  said  no  more.  Her  father  pondered  a  little, 
felt  that  he  had  delivered  his  soul,  and  resumed  the 
book. 

The  next  morning  they  were  early  at   the  station  to 


96  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

secure  good  places  for  the  long  journey  to  London.  Up 
to  almost  the  last  moment  it  seemed  that  they  would 
have  a  carriage  to  themselves.  Then  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  a  bag  was  flung  on  to  the  seat,  and  after  it 
came  a  hot,  panting  man,  a  red-haired  man,  recognised 
immediately  by  both  the  travellers. 

*  I  thought   I  'd  missed   it ! '  ejaculated    the   intruder 
merrily. 

Mr.  Whiston  turned  his  head  away,  disgust  transform- 
ing his  countenance.  Rose  sat  motionless,  her  eyes  cast 
down.  And  the  stranger  mopped  his  forehead  in 
silence. 

He  glanced  at  her  ;  he  glanced  again  and  again ;  and 
Rose  was  aware  of  every  look.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
to  feel  offended.  On  the  contrary,  she  fell  into  a  mood 
of  tremulous  pleasure,  enhanced  by  every  turn  of  the 
stranger's  eyes  in  her  direction.  At  him  she  did  not 
look,  yet  she  saw  him.  Was  it  a  coarse  face  ?  she 
asked  herself.  Plain,  perhaps,  but  decidedly  not  vulgar. 
The  red  hair,  she  thought,  was  not  disagreeably  red  ;  she 
didn't  dislike  that  shade  of  colour.  He  was  humming  a 
tune ;  it  seemed  Jto  be  his  habit,  and  it  argued  healthy 
cheerfulness.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Whiston  sat  stiffly  in  his 
corner,  staring  at  the  landscape,  a  model  of  respectable 
muteness. 

At  the  first  stop  another  man  entered.  This  time, 
unmistakably,  a  commercial  traveller.  At  once  a 
dialogue  sprang  up  between  him  and  Rufus.  The 
traveller  complained  that  all  the  smoking  compartments 
were  full. 

*  Why,'  exclaimed  Rufus,  with  a  laugh,  *  that  reminds 
me  that  I  wanted  a  smoke.      I  never  thought  about  it 
till  now  ;  jumped  in  here  in  a  hurry.' 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  97 

The  traveller's  *  line '  was  tobacco ;  they  talked 
tobacco — Rufus  with  much  gusto.  Presently  the  con- 
versation took  a  wider  scope. 

4 1  envy  you,'  cried  Rufus,  *  always  travelling  about. 
I'm  in  a  beastly  office,  and  get  only  a  fortnight  off 
once  a  year.  I  enjoy  it,  I  can  tell  you  !  Time  's  up  to- 
day, worse  luck  !  I  've  a  good  mind  to  emigrate.  Can 
you  give  me  a  tip  about  the  colonies  ? ' 

He  talked  of  how  he  had  spent  his  holiday.  Rose 
missed  not  a  word,  and  her  blood  pulsed  in  sympathy 
with  the  joy  of  freedom  which  he  expressed.  She  did 
not  mind  his  occasional  slang ;  the  tone  was  manly  and 
right-hearted ;  it  evinced  a  certain  simplicity  of  feeling 
by  no  means  common  in  men,  whether  gentle  or  other. 
At  a  certain  moment  the  girl  was  impelled  to  steal  a 
glimpse  of  his  face.  After  all,  was  it  really  so  plain  ? 
The  features  seemed  to  her  to  have  a  certain  refine- 
ment which  she  had  not  noticed  before. 

'  I  'm  going  to  try  for  a  smoker,'  said  the  man  of 
commerce,  as  the  train  slackened  into  a  busy  station. 

Rufus  Y  '^sitated.      His  eye  wandered. 

'  I  think  I  shall  stay  where  I  am,'  he  ended  by  saying. 

In  that  same  moment,  for  the  first  time,  Rose  met  his 
glance.  She  saw  that  his  eyes  did  not  at  once  avert 
themselves ;  they  had  a  singular  expression,  a  smile 
which  pleaded  pardon  for  its  audacity.  And  Rose,  even 
whilst  turning  away,  smiled  in  response. 

The  train  stopped.  The  commercial  traveller  alighted. 
Rose,  leaning  towards  her  father,  whispered  that  she  was 
thirsty ;  would  he  get  her  a  glass  of  milk  or  of 
lemonade  ?  Though  little  disposed  to  rush  on  such 
errands,  Mr.  Whiston  had  no  choice  but  to  comply  ;  he 
sped  at  once  for  the  refreshment-room. 

G 


98  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

And  Rose  knew  what  would  happen ;  she  knew  per- 
fectly. Sitting  rigid,  her  eyes  on  vacancy,  she  felt  the 
approach  of  the  young  man,  who  for  the  moment  was 
alone  with  her.  She  saw  him  at  her  side  :  she  heard  his 
voice. 

*  I  can't  help  it.     I  want  to  speak  to  you.      May  I  ? ' 

Rose  faltered  a  reply. 

'  It  was  so  kind  to  bring  the  flowers.  I  didn't  thank 
you  properly.' 

'  It 's  now  or  never,'  pursued  the  young  man  in  rapid, 
excited  tones.  *  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  my  name  ? 
Will  you  tell  me  yours  ? ' 

Rose's  silence  consented.  The  daring  Rufus  rent  a 
page  from  a  pocket-book,  scribbled  his  name  and  address, 
gave  it  to  Rose.  He  rent  out  another  page,  offered  it  to 
Rose  with  the  pencil,  and  in  a  moment  had  secured  the 
precious  scrap  of  paper  in  his  pocket.  Scarce  was  the 
transaction  completed  when  a  stranger  jumped  in.  The 
young  man  bounded  to  his  own  corner,  just  in  time  to 
see  the  return  of  Mr.  Whiston,  glass  in  hand. 

During  the  rest  of  the  journey  Rose  was  in  the 
strangest  state  of  mind.  She  did  not  feel  in  the  least 
ashamed  of  herself.  It  seemed  to  her  that  what  had 
happened  was  wholly  natural  and  simple.  The  extra- 
ordinary thing  was  that  she  must  sit  silent  and  with 
cold  countenance  at  the  distance  of  a  few  feet  from  a 
person  with  whom  she  ardently  desired  to  converse. 
Sudden  illumination  had  wholly  changed  the  aspect  of 
life.  She  seemed  to  be  playing  a  part  in  a  grotesque 
comedy  rather  than  living  in  a  world  of  grave  realities. 
Her  father's  dignified  silence  struck  her  as  intolerably 
absurd.  She  could  have  burst  into  laughter  ;  at  moments 
she  was  indignant,  irritated,  tremulous  with  the  spirit  of 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  99 

revolt.  She  detected  a  glance  of  frigid  superiority  with 
which  Mr.  Whiston  chanced  to  survey  the  other  occu- 
pants of  the  compartment.  It  amazed  her.  Never  had 
she  seen  her  father  in  such  an  alien  light.  He  bent 
forward  and  addressed  to  her  some  commonplace 
remark ;  she  barely  deigned  a  reply.  Her  views  of 
conduct,  of  character,  had  undergone  an  abrupt  and 
extraordinary  change.  Having  justified  without  shadow 
of  argument  her  own  incredible  proceeding,  she  judged 
everything  and  everybody  by  some  new  standard, 
mysteriously  attained.  She  was  no  longer  the  Rose 
Whiston  of  yesterday.  Her  old  self  seemed  an  object 
of  compassion.  She  felt  an  unspeakable  happiness,  and 
at  the  same  time  an  encroaching  fear. 

The  fear  predominated ;  when  she  grew  aware  of  the 
streets  of  London  looming  on  either  hand  it  became  a 
torment,  an  anguish.  Small-folded,  crushed  within  her 
palm,  the  piece  of  paper  with  its  still  unread  inscription 
seemed  to  burn  her.  Once,  twice,  thrice  she  met  the 
look  of  her  friend.  He  smiled  cheerily,  bravely,  with 
evident  purpose  of  encouragement.  She  knew  his  face 
better  than  that  of  any  oldest  acquaintance  ;  she  saw  in 
it  a  manly  beauty.  Only  by  a  great  effort  of  self- 
control  could  she  refrain  from  turning  aside  to  unfold 
and  read  what  he  had  written.  The  train  slackened 
speed,  stopped.  Yes,  it  was  London.  She  must  arise 
and  go.  Once  more  their  eyes  met.  Then,  without 
recollection  of  any  interval,  she  was  on  the  Metropolitan 
Railway,  moving  towards  her  suburban  home. 

A  severe  headache  sent  her  early  to  bed.  Beneath 
her  pillow  lay  a  scrap  of  paper  with  a  name  and  address 
she  was  not  likely  to  forget.  And  through  the  night  of 
broken  slumbers  Rose  suffered  a  martyrdom.  No  more 


100  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

self-glorification  !  All  her  courage  gone,  all  her  new 
vitality  !  She  saw  herself  with  the  old  eyes,  and  was 
shame-stricken  to  the  very  heart. 

Whose  the  fault  ?  Towards  dawn  she  argued  it  with 
the  bitterness  of  misery.  What  a  life  was  hers  in  this 
little  world  of  choking  respectabilities  !  Forbidden  this, 
forbidden  that ;  permitted — the  pride  of  ladyhood. 
And  she  was  not  a  lady,  after  all.  What  lady  would 
have  permitted  herself  to  exchange  names  and  addresses 
with  a  strange  man  in  a  railway  carriage — furtively,  too, 
escaping  her  father's  observation  ?  If  not  a  lady,  what 
was  she  ?  It  meant  the  utter  failure  of  her  breeding  and 
education.  The  sole  end  for  which  she  had  lived  was 
frustrate.  A  common,  vulgar  young  woman — well 
mated,  doubtless,  with  an  impudent  clerk,  whose  noisy 
talk  was  of  beer  and  tobacco  ! 

This  arrested  her.  Stung  to  the  defence  of  her  friend, 
who,  clerk  though  he  might  be,  was  neither  impudent 
nor  vulgar,  she  found  herself  driven  back  upon  self- 
respect.  The  battle  went  on  for  hours ;  it  exhausted 
her ;  it  undid  all  the  good  effects  of  sun  and  sea,  and 
left  her  flaccid,  pale. 

4  I'm  afraid  the  journey  yesterday  was  too  much  for 
you,'  remarked  Mr.  Whiston,  after  observing  her  as  she 
sat  mute  the  next  evening. 

'  I  shall  soon  recover,1  Rose  answered  coldly. 

The  father  meditated  with  some  uneasiness.  He  had 
not  forgotten  Rose's  singular  expression  of  opinion  after 
their  dinner  at  the  inn.  His  affection  made  him  sensi- 
tive to  changes  in  the  girl's  demeanour.  Next  summer 
they  must  really  find  a  more  bracing  resort.  Yes,  yes  ; 
clearly  Rose  needed  bracing.  But  she  was  always  better 
when  the  cool  days  came  round, 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  101 

On  the  morrow  it  was  his  daughter's  turn  to  feel 
anxious.  Mr.  Whiston  all  at  once  wore  a  face  of 
indignant  severity.  He  was  absent-minded ;  he  sat 
at  table  with  scarce  a  word  ;  he  had  little  nervous  move- 
ments, and  subdued  mutterings  as  of  wrath.  This  con- 
tinued on  a  second  day,  and  Rose  began  to  suffer  an 
intolerable  agitation.  She  could  not  help  connecting  her 
father's  strange  behaviour  with  the  secret  which  tormented 
her  heart. 

Had  something  happened  ?  Had  her  friend  seen  Mr. 
Whiston,  or  written  to  him  ? 

She  had  awaited  with  tremors  every  arrival  of  the  post. 
It  was  probable — more  than  probable — that  he  would 
write  to  her ;  but  as  yet  no  letter  came.  A  week  passed, 
and  no  letter  came.  Her  father  was  himself  again  ;  plainly 
she  had  mistaken  the  cause  of  his  perturbation.  Ten 
days,  and  no  letter  came. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon.  Mr.  Whiston  reached 
home  at  tea-time.  The  first  glance  showed  his  daughter 
that  trouble  and  anger  once  more  beset  him.  She 
trembled,  and  all  but  wept,  for  suspense  had  overwrought 
her  nerves. 

*  I  find  myself  obliged  to  speak  to  you  on  a  very  dis- 
agreeable subject1 — thus  began  Mr.  Whiston  over  the 
tea-cups — *a  very  unpleasant  subject  indeed.     My  one 
consolation  is  that  it  will  probably  settle  a  little  argu- 
ment we  had  down  at  the  seaside.' 

As  his  habit  was  when  expressing  grave  opinions  (and 
Mr.  Whiston  seldom  expressed  any  other),  he  made  a 
long  pause  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thin  beard. 
The  delay  irritated  Rose  to  the  last  point  of  endurance. 

*  The  fact  is,'  he  proceeded  at  length,  '  a  week  ago  I 
received  a  most  extraordinary  letter — the  most  impudent 


102  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

letter  I  ever  read  in  my  life.  It  came  from  that  noisy, 
beer-drinking  man  who  intruded  upon  us  at  the  inn — 
you  remember.  He  began  by  explaining  who  he  was, 
and — if  you  can  believe  it — had  the  impertinence  to  say 
that  he  wished  to  make  my  acquaintance  !  An  amazing 
letter  !  Naturally,  I  left  it  unanswered — the  only  digni- 
fied thing  to  do.  But  the  fellow  wrote  again,  asking  if 
I  had  received  his  proposal.  I  now  replied,  briefly  and 
severely,  asking  him,  first,  how  he  came  to  know  my 
name ;  secondly,  what  reason  I  had  given  him  for  sup- 
posing that  I  desired  to  meet  him  again.  His  answer 
to  this  was  even  more  outrageous  than  the  first  offence. 
He  bluntly  informed  me  that  in  order  to  discover  my 
name  and  address  he  had  followed  us  home  that  day 
from  Paddington  Station  !  As  if  this  was  not  bad  enough, 
he  went  on  to — really,  Rose,  I  feel  I  must  apologise  to 
you,  but  the  fact  is  I  seem  to  have  no  choice  but  to  tell 
you  what  he  said.  The  fellow  tells  me,  really,  that  he 
wants  to  know  me  only  that  he  may  come  to  know  you ! 
My  first  idea  was  to  go  with  this  letter  to  the  police.  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  shan't  do  so  even  yet ;  most  certainly 
I  shall  if  he  writes  again.  The  man  may  be  crazy — he 
may  be  dangerous.  Who  knows  but  he  may  come  lurk- 
ing about  the  house?  I  felt  obliged  to  warn  you  of 
this  unpleasant  possibility.' 

Rose  was  stirring  her  tea ;  also  she  was  smiling.  She 
continued  to  stir  and  to  smile,  without  consciousness  of 
either  performance. 

'You  make  light  of  it?1  exclaimed  her  father 
solemnly. 

'  O  father,  of  course  I  am  sorry  you  have  had  this 
annoyance.1 

So  little  was  there  of  manifest  sorrow  in  the  girl's  tone 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  103 

and  countenance  that  Mr.  Whiston  gaeed  at  her  rather 
indignantly.  His  pregnant  pause  gave  birth  to  one  of 
those  admonitory  axioms  which  had  hitherto  ruled  his 
daughter's  life. 

1  My  dear,  I  advise  you  never  to  trifle  with  questions 
of  propriety.  Could  there  possibly  be  a  better  illustra- 
tion of  what  I  have  so  often  said — that  in  self-defence 
we  are  bound  to  keep  strangers  at  a  distance  ? ' 

« Father ' 

Rose  began  firmly,  but  her  voice  failed. 

*  You  were  going  to  say,  Rose  ? ' 
She  took  her  courage  in  both  hands. 

'  Will  you  allow  me  to  see  the  letters  ? ' 

*  Certainly.     There  can  be  no  objection  to  that.' 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  three  envelopes,  held 
them  to  his  daughter.  With  shaking  hand  Rose  un- 
folded the  first  letter ;  it  was  written  in  clear  com- 
mercial character,  and  was  signed  '  Charles  James 
Burroughs.'  When  she  had  read  all,  the  girl  said 
quietly — 

'  Are  you  quite  sure,  father,  that  these  letters  are 
impertinent  ? ' 

Mr.  Whiston  stopped  in  the  act  of  finger-combing  his 
beard. 

*  What  doubt  can  there  be  of  it  ? ' 

*  They  seem  to  me,'  proceeded  Rose  nervously,  *  to  be 
very  respectful  and  very  honest.' 

*  My  dear,   you   astound   me !      Is  it  respectful   to 
force  one's  acquaintance   upon   an   unwilling  stranger? 
I  really  don't  understand  you.      Where  is  your  sense 
of  propriety,  Rose  ?     A  vulgar,  noisy  fellow,  who  talks 
of   beer   and   tobacco — a   petty   clerk !       And   he   has 
the   audacity   to   write   to   me   that   he   wants   to — to 


104  THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER 

make  friends  with  my  daughter  !  Respectful  ?  Honest  ? 
Really  ! ' 

When  Mr.  Whiston  became  sufficiently  agitated  to 
lose  his  decorous  gravity,  he  began  to  splutter,  and  at 
such  moments  he  was  not  impressive.  Rose  kept  her 
eyes  cast  down.  She  felt  her  strength  once  more,  the 
strength  of  a  wholly  reasonable  and  half-passionate  re- 
volt against  that  tyrannous  propriety  which  Mr.  Whiston 
worshipped. 

'  Father ' 

4  Well,  my  dear  ?  ' 

'  There  is  only  one  thing  I  dislike  in  these  letters — 
and  that  is  a  falsehood.1 

*  I  don't  understand.' 

Rose  was  flushing.  Her  nerves  grew  tense  ;  she  had 
wrought  herself  to  a  simple  audacity  which  overcame 
small  embarrassments. 

*  Mr.  Burroughs  says  that  he  followed  us  home  from 
Paddington  to  discover  our  address.     That  is  not  true. 
He  asked  me  for  my  name  and  address  in  the  train,  and 
gave  me  his.1 

The  father  gasped. 

'  He  asked ?     You  gave ? ' 

'  It  was  whilst  you  were  away  in  the  refreshment- 
room,'  proceeded  the  girl,  with  singular  self-control, 
in  a  voice  almost  matter-of-fact.  'I  ought  to  tell 
you,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  was  Mr.  Burroughs 
who  brought  me  the  flowers  from  the  inn,  when  I  for- 
got them.  You  didn't  see  him  give  them  to  me  in  the 
station.' 

The  father  stared. 

*  But,  Rose,  what  does  all   this  mean  ?     You — you 
overwhelm  me  !     Go  on,  please.     What  next  ? ' 


THE  SCRUPULOUS  FATHER  105 

*  Nothing,  father.1 

And  of  a  sudden  the  girl  was  so  beset  with  confusing 
emotions  that  she  hurriedly  quitted  her  chair  and 
vanished  from  the  room. 

Before  Mr.  Whiston  returned  to  his  geographical 
drawing  on  Monday  morning,  he  had  held  long  conversa- 
tions with  Rose,  and  still  longer  with  himself.  Not 
easily  could  he  perceive  the  justice  of  his  daughter's 
quarrel  with  propriety ;  many  days  were  to  pass,  indeed, 
before  he  would  consent  to  do  more  than  make  inquiries 
about  Charles  James  Burroughs,  and  to  permit  that 
aggressive  young  man  to  give  a  fuller  account  of  himself 
in  writing.  It  was  by  silence  that  Rose  prevailed.  Hav- 
ing defended  herself  against  the  charge  of  immodesty,  she 
declined  to  urge  her  own  inclination  or  the  rights  of  Mr. 
Burroughs  ;  her  mute  patience  did  not  lack  its  effect  with 
the  scrupulous  but  tender  parent. 

<  I  am  willing  to  admit,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Whiston 
one  evening,  a  propos  of  nothing  at  all,  *  that  the  false- 
hood in  that  young  man's  letter  gave  proof  of  a  certain 
delicacy.' 

'  Thank  you,  father,'  replied  Rose,  very  quietly  and 
simply. 

It  was  next  morning  that  the  father  posted  a  formal, 
proper,  self-respecting  note  of  invitation,  which  bore 
results. 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

IT  was  in  the  drawing-room,  after  dinner.  Mrs.  Char- 
man,  the  large  and  kindly  hostess,  sank  into  a  chair 
beside  her  little  friend  Mrs.  Loring,  and  sighed  a 
question. 

*  How  do  you  like  Mr.  Tymperley  ? ' 

*  Very  nice.     Just  a  little  peculiar.1 

'  Oh,  he  is  peculiar !  Quite  original.  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  about  him  before  we  went  down,  but  there  wasn't 
time.  Such  a  very  old  friend  of  ours.  My  dear  husband 
and  he  were  at  school  together — Harrovians.  The 
sweetest,  the  most  affectionate  character !  Too  good 
for  this  world,  I  'm  afraid ;  he  takes  everything  so 
seriously.  I  shall  never  forget  his  grief  at  my  poor 
husband's  death. — I'm  telling  Mrs.  Loring  about  Mr. 
Tymperley,  Ada.' 

She  addressed  her  married  daughter,  a  quiet  young 
woman  who  reproduced  Mrs.  Charman's  good-natured 
countenance,  with  something  more  of  intelligence,  the 
reflective  serenity  of  a  higher  type. 

'I'm  sorry  to  see  him  looking  so  far  from  well,' 
remarked  Mrs.  Weare,  in  reply. 

'  He  never  had  any  colour,  you  know,  and  his  life  .  .  . 
But  I  must  tell  you,'  she  resumed  to  Mrs.  Loring. 

'  He 's  a  bachelor,  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and — 
100 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  107 

would  you  believe  it  ? — he  lives  quite  alone  in  one  of 
the  distressing  parts  of  London.  Where  is  it,  Ada  ? ' 

'  A  poor  street  in  Islington.' 

'  Yes.  There  he  lives,  I  'm  afraid  in  shocking  lodg- 
ings— it  must  be  so  unhealthy — just  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  life  of  poor  people,  and  be  helpful  to  them. 
Isn't  it  heroic  ?  He  seems  to  have  given  up  his  whole 
life  to  it.  One  never  meets  him  anywhere;  I  think 
ours  is  the  only  house  where  he 's  seen.  A  noble  life  ! 
He  never  talks  about  it.  I'm  sure  you  would  never 
have  suspected  such  a  thing  from  his  conversation  at 
dinner  ? ' 

'  Not  for  a  moment,'  answered  Mrs.  Loring,  astonished. 
*  He  wasn't  very  gossipy — I  gathered  that  his  chief 
interests  were  fretwork  and  foreign  politics.' 

Mrs.  Weare  laughed.  *  The  very  man  !  When  I 
was  a  little  girl  he  used  to  make  all  sorts  of  pretty 
things  for  me  with  his  fret-saw ;  and  when  I  grew  old 
enough,  he  instructed  me  in  the  balance  of  Power.  It 's 
possible,  mamma,  that  he  writes  leading  articles.  We 
should  never  hear  of  it.' 

*  My  dear,  anything  is  possible  with  Mr.  Tymperley. 
And  such  a  change,  this,  after  his  country  life.     He  had 
a  beautiful  little  house  near  ours,  in  Berkshire.     I  really 
can't  help  thinking  that  my  husband's  death  caused  him 
to    leave  it.      He  was   so  attached  to  Mr.   Charman ! 
When    my   husband    died,   and  we  left   Berkshire,   we 
altogether  lost  sight  of  him — oh,  for  a  couple  of  years. 
Then  I  met  him  by  chance  in  London.     Ada   thinks 
there  must  have  been  some  sentimental  trouble.' 

*  Dear  mamma,'  interposed  the  daughter,  *  it  was  you, 
not  I,  who  suggested  that.' 

'Was  it?     Well,  perhaps   it  was.     One  can't  help 


108  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

seeing  that  he  has  gone  through"  something.  Of  course 
it  may  be  only  pity  for  the  poor  souls  he  gives  his  life 
to.  A  wonderful  man  ! ' 

When  masculine  voices  sounded  at  the  drawing-room 
door,  Mrs.  Loring  looked  curiously  for  the  eccentric 
gentleman.  He  entered  last  of  all.  A  man  of  more 
than  middle  height,  but  much  bowed  in  the  shoulders ; 
thin,  ungraceful,  with  an  irresolute  step  and  a  shy 
demeanour ;  his  pale-grey  eyes,  very  soft  in  expression, 
looked  timidly  this  way  and  that  from  beneath  brows 
nervously  bent,  and  a  self-obliterating  smile  wavered 
upon  his  lips.  His  hair  had  begun  to  thin  and  to  turn 
grey,  but  he  had  a  heavy  moustache,  which  would  better 
have  sorted  with  sterner  lineaments.  As  he  walked — 
or  sidled — into  the  room,  his  hands  kept  shutting  and 
opening,  with  rather  ludicrous  effect.  Something  which 
was  not  exactly  shabbiness,  but  a  lack  of  lustre,  of  finish, 
singled  him  among  the  group  of  men  ;  looking  closer, 
one  saw  that  his  black  suit  belonged  to  a  fashion  some 
years  old.  His  linen  was  irreproachable,  but  he  wore 
no  sort  of  jewellery,  one  little  black  stud  showing  on  his 
front,  and,  at  the  cuffs,  solitaires  of  the  same  simple 
description. 

He  drifted  into  a  corner,  and  there  would  have  sat 
alone,  seemingly  at  peace,  had  not  Mrs.  Weare  presently 
moved  to  a  seat  beside  him. 

'I  hope  you  won't  be  staying  in  town  through 
August,  Mr.  Tymperley  ? ' 

*  No  ! — Oh  no  !— Oh  no,  I  think  not ! ' 

*  But  you  seem  uncertain.     Do  forgive  me  if  I  say 
that  I  'm  sure  you  need  a  change.     Really,  you  know, 
you  are  not  looking  quite  the  thing.     Now,  can't  I  per- 
suade you  to  join  us  at  Lucerne  ?     My  husband  would 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  109 

be  so  pleased — delighted  to  talk  with  you  about  the 
state  of  Europe.  Give  us  a  fortnight — do  ! ' 

'  My  dear  Mrs.  Weare,  you  are  kindness  itself !  I 
am  deeply  grateful.  I  can't  easily  express  my  sense  of 
your  most  friendly  thoughtfulness.  But,  the  truth  is, 
I  am  half  engaged  to  other  friends.  Indeed,  I  think  I 
may  almost  say  that  I  have  practically  .  .  .  yes,  indeed, 
it  amounts  to  that.' 

He  spoke  in  a  thinly  fluting  voice,  with  a  preciseness 
of  enunciation  akin  to  the  more  feebly  clerical,  and  with 
smiles  which  became  almost  lachrymose  in  their  expres- 
siveness as  he  dropped  from  phrase  to  phrase  of  embar- 
rassed circumlocution.  And  his  long  bony  hands  writhed 
together  till  the  knuckles  were  white. 

*  Well,  so  long  as  you  are  going  away.     I  'm  so  afraid 
lest    your   conscientiousness    should   go  too  far.     You 
won't  benefit  anybody,  you  know,  by  making  yourself  ill.1 

'  Obviously  not ! — Ha,  ha  ! — I  assure  you  that  fact  is 
patent  to  me.  Health  is  a  primary  consideration. 
Nothing  more  detrimental  to  one's  usefulness  than  an 
impaired  .  .  .  Oh,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure ! ' 

*  There's  the   strain  upon  your  sympathies.       That 
must  affect  one's  health,  quite  apart  from  an  unhealthy 
atmosphere.' 

*  But  Islington  is  not  unhealthy,  my  dear  Mrs.  Weare  ! 
Believe  me,  the  air  has  often  quite  a  tonic  quality.      We 
are  so  high,  you    must  remember.      If  only  we   could 
subdue  in  some  degree  the  noxious  exhalations  of  domestic 
and  industrial  chimneys ! — Oh,  I  assure  you,  Islington 
has  every  natural  feature  of  salubrity.' 

Before  the  close  of  the  evening  there  was  a  little 
music,  which  Mr.  Tymperley  seemed  much  to  enjoy. 
He  let  his  head  fall  back,  and  stared  upwards ;  remain- 


110  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

ing  rapt  in  that  posture  for  some  moments  after  the 
music  ceased,  and  at  length  recovering  himself  with  a 
sigh. 

When  he  left  the  house,  he  donned  an  overcoat  con- 
siderably too  thick  for  the  season,  and  bestowed  in  the 
pockets  his  patent-leather  shoes.  His  hat  was  a  hard 
felt,  high  in  the  crown.  He  grasped  an  ill-folded 
umbrella,  and  set  forth  at  a  brisk  walk,  as  if  for  the 
neighbouring  station.  But  the  railway  was  not  his  goal, 
nor  yet  the  omnibus.  Through  the  ambrosial  night  he 
walked  and  walked,  at  the  steady  pace  of  one  accustomed 
to  pedestrian  exercise :  from  Netting  Hill  Gate  to  the 
Marble  Arch ;  from  the  Marble  Arch  to  New  Oxford 
Street ;  thence  by  Theobald's  Road  to  Pentonville,  and 
up,  and  up,  until  he  attained  the  heights  of  his  own 
salubrious  quarter.  Long  after  midnight  he  entered  a 
narrow  byway,  which  the  pale  moon  showed  to  be  decent, 
though  not  inviting.  He  admitted  himself  with  a  latch- 
key to  a  little  house  which  smelt  of  glue,  lit  a  candle- 
end  which  he  found  in  his  pocket,  and  ascended  two 
flights  of  stairs  to  a  back  bedroom,  its  size  eight  feet  by 
seven  and  a  half.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  he  lay 
sound  asleep. 

Waking  at  eight  o'clock — he  knew  the  time  by  a  bell 
that  clanged  in  the  neighbourhood — Mr.  Tymperley 
clad  himself  with  nervous  haste.  On  opening  his  door, 
he  found  lying  outside  a  tray,  with  the  materials  of  a 
breakfast  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms :  half  a  pint  of 
milk,  bread,  butter.  At  nine  o'clock  he  went  down- 
stairs, tapped  civilly  at  the  door  of  the  front  parlour, 
and  by  an  untuned  voice  was  bidden  enter.  The  room 
was  occupied  by  an  oldish  man  and  a  girl,  addressing 
themselves  to  the  day's  work  of  plain  bookbinding. 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  111 

*Good  morning  to  you,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Tymperley, 
bending  his  head.  *  Good  morning,  Miss  Suggs.  Bright ! 
Sunny  !  How  it  cheers  one  ! ' 

He  stood  rubbing  his  hands,  as  one  might  on  a  morn- 
ing of  sharp  frost.  The  bookbinder,  with  a  dry  nod  for 
greeting,  forthwith  set  Mr.  Tymperley  a  task,  to  which 
that  gentleman  zealously  applied  himself.  He  was  learn- 
ing the  elementary  processes  of  the  art.  He  worked 
with  patience,  and  some  show  of  natural  aptitude,  all 
through  the  working  hours  of  the  day. 

To  this  pass  had  things  come  with  Mr.  Tymperley, 
a  gentleman  of  Berkshire,  once  living  in  comfort  and 
modest  dignity  on  the  fruit  of  sound  investments. 
Schooled  at  Harrow,  a  graduate  of  Cambridge,  he  had 
meditated  the  choice  of  a  profession  until  it  seemed,  on 
the  whole,  too  late  to  profess  anything  at  all ;  and,  as 
there  was  no  need  of  such  exertion,  he  settled  himself  to 
a  life  of  innocent  idleness,  hard  by  the  country-house  of 
his  wealthy  and  influential  friend,  Mr.  Charman.  Softly 
the  years  flowed  by.  His  thoughts  turned  once  or  twice 
to  marriage,  but  a  profound  diffidence  withheld  him 
from  the  initial  step ;  in  the  end,  he  knew  himself  born 
for  bachelorhood,  and  with  that  estate  was  content. 
Well  for  him  had  he  seen  as  clearly  the  delusiveness  of 
other  temptations  !  In  an  evil  moment  he  listened  to 
Mr.  Charman,  whose  familiar  talk  was  of  speculation, 
of  companies,  of  shining  percentages.  Not  on  his  own 
account  was  Mr.  Tymperley  lured  :  he  had  enough  and 
to  spare ;  but  he  thought  of  his  sister,  married  to  an 
unsuccessful  provincial  barrister,  and  of  her  six  children, 
whom  it  would  be  pleasant  to  help,  like  the  opulent 
uncle  of  fiction,  at  their  entering  upon  the  world.  In 
Mr.  Charman  he  put  blind  faith,  with  the  result  that 


112  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

one  morning  he  found  himself  shivering  on  the  edge  oi 
ruin ;  the  touch  of  confirmatory  news,  and  over  he 
went. 

No  one  was  aware  of  it  but  Mr.  Charman  himself, 
and  he,  a  few  days  later,  lay  sick  unto  death.  Mr. 
Charm  an's  own  estate  suffered  inappreciably  from  what 
to  his  friend  meant  sheer  disaster.  And  Mr.  Tymperley 
breathed  not  a  word  to  the  widow ;  spoke  not  a  word 
to  any  one  at  all,  except  the  lawyer,  who  quietly  wound 
up  his  affairs,  and  the  sister  whose  children  must  needs 
go  without  avuncular  aid.  During  the  absence  of  his 
friendly  neighbours  after  Mr.  Charman's  death,  he  quietly 
disappeared. 

The  poor  gentleman  was  then  close  upon  forty  years 
old.  There  remained  to  him  a  capital  which  he  durst 
not  expend ;  invested,  it  bore  him  an  income  upon 
which  a  labourer  could  scarce  have  subsisted.  The 
only  possible  place  of  residence — because  the  only  sure 
place  of  hiding — was  London,  and  to  London  Mr. 
Tymperley  betook  himself.  Not  at  once  did  he  learn 
the  art  of  combating  starvation  with  minim  resources. 
During  his  initiatory  trials  he  was  once  brought  so  low, 
by  hunger  and  humiliation,  that  he  swallowed  something 
of  his  pride,  and  wrote  to  a  certain  acquaintance,  asking 
counsel  and  indirect  help.  But  only  a  man  in  Mr. 
Tymperley's  position  learns  how  vain  is  well-meaning 
advice,  and  how  impotent  is  social  influence.  Had  he 
begged  for  money,  he  would  have  received,  no  doubt,  a 
cheque,  with  words  of  compassion ;  but  Mr.  Tymperley 
could  never  bring  himself  to  that. 

He  tried  to  make  profit  of  his  former  amusement, 
fretwork,  and  to  a  certain  extent  succeeded,  earning  in 
six  months  half  a  sovereign.  But  the  prospect  of  adding 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  113 

one  pound  a  year  to  his  starveling  dividends  did  not 
greatly  exhilarate  him. 

All  this  time  he  was  of  course  living  in  absolute 
solitude.  Poverty  is  the  great  secluder — unless  one 
belongs  to  the  rank  which  is  born  to  it ;  a  sensitive  man 
who  no  longer  finds  himself  on  equal  terms  with  his 
natural  associates,  shrinks  into  loneliness,  and  learns 
with  some  surprise  how  very  willing  people  are  to  forget 
his  existence.  London  is  a  wilderness  abounding  in 
anchorites — voluntary  or  constrained.  As  he  wandered 
about  the  streets  and  parks,  or  killed  time  in  museums 
and  galleries  (where  nothing  had  to  be  paid),  Mr. 
Tymperley  often  recognised  brethren  in  seclusion ;  he 
understood  the  furtive  glance  which  met  his  own,  he 
read  the  peaked  visage,  marked  with  understanding 
sympathy  the  shabby-genteel  apparel.  No  interchange 
of  confidences  between  these  lurking  mortals  ;  they  would 
like  to  speak,  but  pride  holds  them  aloof;  each  goes  on 
his  silent  and  unfriended  way,  until,  by  good  luck,  he 
finds  himself  in  hospital  or  workhouse,  when  at  length 
the  tongue  is  loosed,  and  the  sore  heart  pours  forth  its 
reproach  of  the  world. 

Strange  knowledge  comes  to  a  man  in  this  position. 
He  learns  wondrous  economies,  and  will  feel  a  sort  of 
pride  in  his  ultimate  discovery  of  how  little  money  is 
needed  to  support  life.  In  his  old  days  Mr.  Tymperley 
would  have  laid  it  down  as  an  axiom  that  '  one '  cannot 
live  on  less  than  such-and-such  an  income ;  he  found 
that  '  a  man '  can  live  on  a  few  coppers  a  day.  He 
became  aware  of  the  prices  of  things  to  eat,  and  was 
taught  the  relative  virtues  of  nutriment.  Perforce  a 
vegetarian,  he  found  that  a  vegetable  diet  was  good  for 
his  health,  and  delivered  to  himself  many  a  scornful 


114  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

speech  on  the  habits  of  the  carnivorous  multitude.  He 
of  necessity  abjured  alcohols,  and  straightway  longed  to 
utter  his  testimony  on  a  teetotal  platform.  These  were 
his  satisfactions.  They  compensate  astonishingly  for  the 
loss  of  many  kinds  of  self-esteem. 

But  it  happened  one  day  that,  as  he  was  in  the  act 
of  drawing  his  poor  little  quarterly  salvage  at  the  Bank 
of  England,  a  lady  saw  him  and  knew  him.  It  was 
Mr.  Charman's  widow. 

'  Why,  Mr.  Tymperley,  what  has  become  of  you  all 
this  time  ?  Why  have  I  never  heard  from  you  ?  Is  it 
true,  as  some  one  told  me,  that  you  have  been  living 
abroad  ? ' 

So  utterly  was  he  disconcerted,  that  in  a  mechanical 
way  he  echoed  the  lady's  last  word  :  '  Abroad.1 

*  But  why  didn't  you  write  to  us  ? '    pursued  Mrs. 
Charman,   leaving  him    no   time  to   say  more.      *  How 
very  unkind  !      Why  did  you  go  away  without  a  word  ? 
My   daughter   says   that   we    must    have    unconsciously 
offended  you  in  some  way.     Do  explain !     Surely  there 
can't  have  been  anything ' 

*  My  dear  Mrs.  Charman,  it  is  I  alone  who  am  to  blame. 
I   ...  the  explanation  is  difficult ;  it  involves  a  multi- 
plicity of  detail.     I  beg  you  to  interpret  my  unjustifiable 
behaviour  as — as  pure  idiosyncrasy.' 

'  Oh,  you  must  come  and  see  me.  You  know  that 
Ada 's  married  ?  Yes,  nearly  a  year  ago.  How  glad 
she  will  be  to  see  you  again.  So  often  she  has  spoken 
of  you.  When  can  you  dine  ?  To-morrow  ? ' 

'  With  pleasure — with  great  pleasure.' 

« Delightful ! ' 

She  gave  her  address,  and  they  parted. 

Now,  a  proof  that  Mr.  Tymperley  had  never  lost  all 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  115 

hope  of  restitution  to  his  native  world  lay  in  the  fact 
of  his  having  carefully  preserved  an  evening-suit,  with 
the  appropriate  patent-leather  shoes.  Many  a  time  had 
he  been  sorely  tempted  to  sell  these  seeming  superfluities  ; 
more  than  once,  towards  the  end  of  his  pinched  quarter, 
the  suit  had  been  pledged  for  a  few  shillings  ;  but  to 
part  with  the  supreme  symbol  of  respectability  would 
have  meant  despair — a  state  of  mind  alien  to  Mr. 
Tymperley's  passive  fortitude.  His  jewellery,  even 
watch  and  chain,  had  long  since  gone :  such  gauds 
are  not  indispensable  to  a  gentleman's  outfit.  He  now 
congratulated  himself  on  his  prudence,  for  the  meeting 
with  Mrs.  Charman  had  delighted  as  much  as  it  embar- 
rassed him,  and  the  prospect  of  an  evening  in  society 
made  his  heart  glow.  He  hastened  home  ;  he  examined 
his  garb  of  ceremony  with  anxious  care,  and  found  no 
glaring  defect  in  it.  A  shirt,  a  collar,  a  necktie  must 
needs  be  purchased ;  happily  he  had  the  means.  But 
how  explain  himself?  Could  he  confess  his  place  of 
abode,  his  startling  poverty?  To  do  so  would  be  to 
make  an  appeal  to  the  compassion  of  his  old  friends,  and 
from  that  he  shrank  in  horror.  A  gentleman  will  not, 
if  it  can  possibly  be  avoided,  reveal  circumstances  likely 
to  cause  pain.  Must  he,  then,  tell  or  imply  a  falsehood. 
The  whole  truth  involved  a  reproach  of  Mrs.  Charman's 
husband — a  thought  he  could  not  bear. 

The  next  evening  found  him  still  worrying  over  this 
dilemma.  He  reached  Mrs.  Charman's  house  without 
having  come  to  any  decision.  In  the  drawing-room 
three  persons  awaited  him :  the  hostess,  with  her 
daughter  and  son-in-law,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weare.  The 
cordiality  of  his  reception  moved  him  all  but  to  tears ; 
overcome  by  many  emotions,  he  lost  his  head.  He  talked 


116  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

at  random ;  and  the  result  was  so  strange  a  piece  of 
fiction,  that  no  sooner  had  he  evolved  it  than  he  stood 
aghast  at  himself. 

It  came  in  reply  to  the  natural  question  where  he  was 
residing. 

'  At  present ' — he  smiled  fatuously — '  I  inhabit  a 
bed-sitting-room  in  a  little  street  up  at  Islington.1 

Dead  silence  followed.  Eyes  of  wonder  were  fixed 
upon  him.  But  for  those  eyes,  who  knows  what  con- 
fession Mr.  Tymperley  might  have  made  ?  As  it 
was  .  .  . 

'  I  said,  Mrs.  Charman,  that  I  had  to  confess  to  an 
eccentricity.  I  hope  it  won't  shock  you.  To  be  brief,  I 
have  devoted  my  poor  energies  to  social  work.  I  live 
among  the  poor,  and  as  one  of  them,  to  obtain  knowledge 
that  cannot  be  otherwise  procured.1 

*  Oh,  how  noble  ! 1  exclaimed  the  hostess. 

The  poor  gentleman's  conscience  smote  him  terribly. 
He  could  say  no  more.  To  spare  his  delicacy,  his  friends 
turned  the  conversation.  Then  or  afterwards,  it  never 
occurred  to  them  to  doubt  the  truth  of  what  he  had 
said.  Mrs.  Charman  had  seen  him  transacting  business 
at  the  Bank  of  England,  a  place  not  suggestive  of 
poverty ;  and  he  had  always  passed  for  a  man  somewhat 
original  in  his  views  and  ways.  Thus  was  Mr.  Tymperley 
committed  to  a  singular  piece  of  deception,  a  fraud  which 
could  not  easily  be  discovered,  and  which  injured  only  its 
perpetrator. 

Since  then  about  a  year  had  elapsed.  Mr.  Tymperley 
had  seen  his  friends  perhaps  half  a  dozen  times,  his  en- 
joyment of  their  society  pathetically  intense,  but  troubled 
by  any  slightest  allusion  to  his  mode  of  life.  It  had 
come  to  be  understood  that  he  made  it  a  matter  of 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  117 

principle  to  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel,  so  he  seldom 
had  to  take  a  new  step  in  positive  falsehood.  Of  course 
he  regretted  ceaselessly  the  original  deceit,  for  Mrs. 
Channan,  a  wealthy  woman,  might  very  well  have  assisted 
him  to  some  not  undignified  mode  of  earning  his  living. 
As  it  was,  he  had  hit  upon  the  idea  of  making  himself  a 
bookbinder,  a  craft  somewhat  to  his  taste.  For  some 
months  he  had  lodged  in  the  bookbinder's  house ;  one 
day  courage  came  to  him,  and  he  entered  into  a  compact 
withjiis  landlord,  whereby  he  was  to  pay  for  instruction 
by  a  certain  period  of  unremunerated  work  after  he  be- 
came proficient.  That  stage  was  now  approaching.  On 
the  whole,  he  felt  much  happier  than  in  the  time  of 
brooding  idleness.  He  looked  forward  to  the  day  when 
he  would  have  a  little  more  money  in  his  pocket,  and  no 
longer  dread  the  last  fortnight  of  each  quarter,  with  its 
supperless  nights. 

Mrs.  Wearers  invitation  to  Lucerne  cost  him  pangs. 
Lucerne  !  Surely  it  was  in  some  former  state  of  exist- 
ence that  he  had  taken  delightful  holidays  as  a  matter 
of  course.  He  thought  of  the  many  lovely  places  he 
knew,  and  so  many  dream-landscapes  ;  the  London  streets 
made  them  infinitely  remote,  utterly  unreal.  His  three 
years  of  gloom  and  hardship  were  longer  than  all  the  life 
of  placid  contentment  that  came  before.  Lucerne  !  A 
man  of  more  vigorous  temper  would  have  been  maddened 
at  the  thought ;  but  Mr.  Tymperley  nursed  it  all  day  long, 
his  emotions  only  expressing  themselves  in  a  little  sigh 
or  a  sadly  wistful  smile. 

Having  dined  so  well  yesterday,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
expend  less  than  usual  on  to-day's  meals.  About  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  after  a  meditative  stroll  in  the  air 
which  he  had  so  praised,  he  entered  the  shop  where  he 


118  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

was  wont  to  make  his  modest  purchases.  A  fat  woman 
behind  the  counter  nodded  familiarly  to  him,  with  a  grin 
at  another  customer.  Mr.  Tymperley  bowed,  as  was  his 
courteous  habit. 

'  Oblige  me,1  he  said,  *  with  one  new-laid  egg,  and  a 
small,  crisp  lettuce/ 

*  Only  one  to-night,  eh  ? '  said  the  woman. 

'  Thank  you,  only  one,'  he  replied,  as  if  speaking  in 
a  drawing-room.  '  Forgive  me  if  I  express  a  hope 
that  it  will  be,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  new-laid. 
The  last,  I  fancy,  had  got  into  that  box  by  some  over- 
sight— pardonable  in  the  press  of  business.' 

*  They  're  always  the  same,'  said  the  fat  shopkeeper. 
'  We  don't  make  no  mistakes  of  that  kind.' 

'  Ah  !     Forgive  me  !     Perhaps  I  imagined ' 

Egg  and  lettuce  were  carefully  deposited  in  a  little 
handbag  he  carried,  and  he  returned  home.  An  hour 
later,  when  his  meal  was  finished,  and  he  sat  on  a 
straight-backed  chair  meditating  in  the  twilight,  a  rap 
sounded  at  his  door,  and  a  letter  was  handed  to  him. 
So  rarely  did  a  letter  arrive  for  Mr.  Tymperley  that  his 
hand  shook  as  he  examined  the  envelope.  On  opening 
it,  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  a  cheque.  This  excited 
him  still  more  ;  he  unfolded  the  written  sheet  with  agita- 
tion. It  came  from  Mrs.  Weare,  who  wrote  thus  : — 

'  MY  DEAR  MR.  TYMPERLEY, — After  our  talk  last  evening, 
I  could  not  help  thinking  of  you  and  your  beautiful  life  of 
self-sacrifice.  I  contrasted  the  lot  of  these  poor  people  with 
my  own,  which,  one  cannot  but  feel,  is  so  undeservedly  blest 
and  so  rich  in  enjoyments.  As  a  result  of  these  thoughts,  I 
feel  impelled  to  send  you  ?  little  contribution  to  your  good 
work — a  sort  of  thank-offering  at  the  moment  of  setting  off 
for  a  happy  holiday.  Divide  the  money,  please,  among  two 
or  three  of  your  most  deserving  pensioners ;  or,  if  you  see  fit, 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  119 

give  it  all  to  one.     I  cling  to  the  hope  that  we  may  see  you 
at  Lucerne. — With  very  kind  regards. 

The  cheque  was  for  five  pounds.  Mr.  Tymperley 
held  it  up  by  the  window,  and  gazed  at  it.  By  his 
present  standards  of  value  five  pounds  seemed  a  very 
large  sum.  Think  of  what  one  could  do  with  it !  His 
boots — which  had  been  twice  repaired — would  not 
decently  serve  him  much  longer.  His  trousers  were 
in  the  last  stage  of  presentability.  The  hat  he  wore 
(how  carefully  tended  !)  was  the  same  in  which  he  had 
come  to  London  three  years  ago.  He  stood  in  need, 
verily,  of  a  new  equipment  from  head  to  foot ;  and  in 
Islington  five  pounds  would  more  than  cover  the  whole 
expense.  When,  pray,  was  he  likely  to  have  such  a  sum 
at  his  free  disposal  ? 

He  sighed  deeply,  and  stared  about  him  in  the 
dusk. 

The  cheque  was  crossed.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Mr.  Tymperley  perceived  that  the  crossing  of  a 
cheque  may  occasion  its  recipient  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 
How  was  he  to  get  it  changed  ?  He  knew  his  landlord 
for  a  suspicious  curmudgeon,  and  refusal  of  the  favour, 
with  such  a  look  as  Mr.  Suggs  knew  how  to  give,  would 
be  a  sore  humiliation ;  besides,  it  was  very  doubtful 
whether  Mr.  Suggs  could  make  any  use  of  the  cheque 
himself.  To  whom  else  could  he  apply  ?  Literally,  to 
no  one  in  London. 

'  Well,  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  answer  Mrs. 
Weare's  letter.  He  lit  his  lamp  and  sat  down  at 
the  crazy  little  deal  table ;  but  his  pen  dipped  several 
times  into  the  ink  before  he  found  himself  able  to 
write. 


120  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

'  DEAR  MRS.  WEARE/ — 

Then,  so  long  a  pause  that  he  seemed  to  be  falling  asleep. 
With  a  jerk,  he  bent  again  to  his  task. 

'  With  sincere  gratitude  I  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  your 
most  kind  and  generous  donation.  The  money  .  .  .' 

(Again  his  hand  lay  idle  for  several  minutes.) 

'  shall  be  used  as  you  wish,  and  I  will  render  to  you  a  detailed 
account  of  the  benefits  conferred  by  it.' 

Never  had  he  found  composition  so  difficult.  He  felt 
that  he  was  expressing  himself  wretchedly  ;  a  clog  was  on 
his  brain.  It  cost  him  an  exertion  of  physical  strength 
to  conclude  the  letter.  When  it  was  done,  he  went  out, 
purchased  a  stamp  at  a  tobacconist's  shop,  and  dropped 
the  envelope  into  the  post. 

Little  slumber  had  Mr.  Tymperley  that  night.  On 
lying  down,  he  began  to  wonder  where  he  should  find 
the  poor  people  worthy  of  sharing  in  this  benefaction. 
Of  course  he  had  no  acquaintance  with  the  class  of 
persons  of  whom  Mrs.  Weare  was  thinking.  In  a  sense, 
all  the  families  round  about  were  poor,  but — he  asked 
himself — had  poverty  the  same  meaning  for  them  as 
for  him  ?  Was  there  a  man  or  woman  in  this  grimy 
street  who,  compared  with  himself,  had  any  right  to 
be  called  poor  at  all  ?  An  educated  man  forced  to  live 
among  the  lower  classes  arrives  at  many  interesting  con- 
clusions with  regard  to  them  ;  one  conclusion  long  since 
fixed  in  Mr.  Tymperley 's  mind  was  that  the  '  suffering  ' 
of  those  classes  is  very  much  exaggerated  by  outsiders 
using  a  criterion  quite  inapplicable.  He  saw  around  him 
a  world  of  coarse  jollity,  of  contented  labour,  and  of 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  121 

brutal  apathy.  It  seemed  to  him  more  than  probable 
that  the  only  person  in  this  street  conscious  of  poverty, 
and  suffering  under  it,  was  himself. 

From  nightmarish  dozing,  he  started  with  a  vivid 
thought,  a  recollection  which  seemed  to  pierce  his  brain. 
To  whom  did  he  owe  his  fall  from  comfort  and  self- 
respect,  and  all  his  long  miseries  ?  To  Mrs.  Weare's 
father.  And,  from  this  point  of  view,  might  the  cheque 
for  five  pounds  be  considered  as  mere  restitution  ? 
Might  it  not  strictly  be  applicable  to  his  own 
necessities  ? 

Another  little  gap  of  semi-consciousness  led  to  another 
strange  reflection.  What  if  Mrs.  Weare  (a  sensible 
woman)  suspected,  or  even  had  discovered,  the  truth 
about  him.  What  if  she  secretly  meant  the  money  for 
his  own  use? 

Earliest  daylight  made  this  suggestion  look  very 
insubstantial  ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  strengthened  his 
memory  of  Mr.  Charman's  virtual  indebtedness  to  him. 
He  jumped  out  of  bed  to  reach  the  cheque,  and  for  an 
hour  lay  with  it  in  his  hand.  Then  he  rose  and 
dressed  mechanically. 

After  the  day's  work  he  rambled  in  a  street  of  large 
shops.  A  bootmaker's  arrested  him  ;  he  stood  before  the 
window  for  a  long  time,  turning  over  and  over  in  his 
pocket  a  sovereign — no  small  fraction  of  the  ready  coin 
which  had  to  support  him  until  dividend  day.  Then  he 
crossed  the  threshold. 

Never  did  man  use  less  discretion  in  the  purchase  of  a 
pair  of  boots.  His  business  was  transacted  in  a  dream  ; 
he  spoke  without  hearing  what  he  said  ;  he  stared  at 
objects  without  perceiving  them.  The  result  was  that 
not  till  he  had  got  home,  with  his  easy  old  footgear  under 


122  A  POOR  GENTLEMAN 

his  arm,  did  he  become  aware  that  the  new  boots  pinched 
him  most  horribly.  They  creaked  too  :  heavens  !  how  they 
creaked  !  But  doubtless  all  new  boots  had  these  faults  ; 
he  had  forgotten ;  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  bought  a 
pair.  The  fact  was,  he  felt  dreadfully  tired,  utterly  worn 
out.  After  munching  a  mouthful  of  supper  he  crept  into 
bed. 

All  night  long  he  warred  with  his  new  boots.  Foot- 
sore, he  limped  about  the  streets  of  a  spectral  city, 
where  at  every  corner  some  one  seemed  to  lie  in  ambush 
for  him,  and  each  time  the  lurking  enemy  proved  to  be 
no  other  than  Mrs.  Weare,  who  gazed  at  him  with  scorn- 
ful eyes  and  let  him  totter  by.  The  creaking  of  the 
boots  was  an  articulate  voice,  which  ever  and  anon 
screamed  at  him  a  terrible  name.  He  shrank  and  shivered 
and  groaned  ;  but  on  he  went,  for  in  his  hand  he  held  a 
crossed  cheque,  which  he  was  bidden  to  get  changed,  and 
no  one  would  change  it.  What  a  night ! 

When  he  woke  his  brain  was  heavy  as  lead  ;  but  his 
meditations  were  very  lucid.  Pray,  what  did  he  mean  by 
that  insane  outlay  of  money,  which  he  could  not  possibly 
afford,  on  a  new  (and  detestable)  pair  of  boots  ?  The 
old  would  have  lasted,  at  all  events,  till  winter  began. 
What  was  in  his  mind  when  he  entered  the  shop  ?  Did 
he  intend  .  .  .  ?  Merciful  powers  ! 

Mr.  Tymperley  was  not  much  of  a  psychologist.  But 
all  at  once  he  saw  with  awful  perspicacity  the  moral 
crisis  through  which  he  had  been  living.  And  it  taught 
him  one  more  truth  on  the  subject  of  poverty. 

Immediately  after  his  breakfast  he  went  downstairs  and 
tapped  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Suggs1  sitting-room. 

'  What  is  it  ?  '  asked  the  bookbinder,  who  was  eating 
his  fourth  large  rasher,  and  spoke  with  his  mouth  full. 


A  POOR  GENTLEMAN  123 

*  Sir,  I  beg  leave  of  absence  for  an  hour  or  two  this 
morning.  Business  of  some  moment  demands  my 
attention.' 

Mr.  Suggs  answered,  with  the  grace  natural  to  his 
order,  '  I  s'pose  you  can  do  as  you  like.  I  don't  pay  you 
nothing.' 

The  other  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Two  days  later  he  again  penned  a  letter  to  Mrs. 
Weare.  It  ran  thus  : — 

'  The  money  which  you  so  kindly  sent,  and  which  I  have 
already  acknowledged,  has  now  been  distributed.  To  en- 
sure a  proper  use  of  it,  I  handed  the  cheque,  with  clear 
instructions,  to  a  clergyman  in  this  neighbourhood,  who  has 
been  so  good  as  to  jot  down,  on  the  sheet  enclosed,  a 
memorandum  of  his  beneficiaries,  which  I  trust  will  be 
satisfactory  and  gratifying  to  you. 

'  But  why,  you  will  ask,  did  I  have  recourse  to  a  clergy- 
man. Why  did  I  not  use  my  own  experience,  and  give 
myself  the  pleasure  of  helping  poor  souls  in  whom  I  have  a 
personal  interest — I  who  have  devoted  my  life  to  this  mission 
of  mercy  ? 

'  The  answer  is  brief  and  plain.     I  have  lied  to  you. 

'  I  am  not  living  in  this  place  of  my  free  will.  I  am  not 
devoting  myself  to  works  of  charity.  I  am — no,  no,  I  was 
— merely  a  poor  gentleman,  who,  on  a  certain  day,  found 
that  he  had  wasted  his  substance  in  a  foolish  speculation,  and 
who,  ashamed  to  take  his  friends  into  his  confidence,  fled  to 
a  life  of  miserable  obscurity.  You  see  that  I  have  added 
disgrace  to  misfortune.  I  will  not  tell  you  how  very  near  I 
came  to  something  still  worse. 

'  I  have  been  serving  an  apprenticeship  to  a  certain  handi- 
craft which  will,  I  doubt  not,  enable  me  so  to  supplement 
my  own  scanty  resources  that  I  shall  be  in  better  circum- 
stances than  hitherto.  I  entreat  you  to  forgive  me,  if  you 
can,  and  henceforth  to  forget  Yours  unworthily, 

'S.  V.  TYMPERLEY.' 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

A  YOUNG  woman  of  about  eight-and-twenty,  in  tailor- 
made  costume,  with  unadorned  hat  of  brown  felt,  and 
irreproachable  umbrella ;  a  young  woman  who  walked 
faster  than  any  one  in  Wattleborough,  yet  never  looked 
hurried ;  who  crossed  a  muddy  street  seemingly  without 
a  thought  for  her  skirts,  yet  somehow  was  never  splashed  ; 
who  held  up  her  head  like  one  thoroughly  at  home  in 
the  world,  and  frequently  smiled  at  her  own  thoughts. 
Those  who  did  not  know  her  asked  who  she  was ;  those 
who  had  already  made  her  acquaintance  talked  a  good 
deal  of  the  new  mistress  at  the  High  School,  by  name 
Miss  Rodney.  In  less  than  a  week  after  her  arrival  in 
the  town,  her  opinions  were  cited  and  discussed  by 
Wattleborough  ladies.  She  brought  with  her  the  air 
of  a  University  ;  she  knew  a  great  number  of  important 
people ;  she  had  a  quiet  decision  of  speech  and  manner 
which  was  found  very  impressive  in  Wattleborough 
drawing-rooms.  The  headmistress  spoke  of  her  in  high 
terms,  and  the  incumbent  of  St.  Luke's,  who  knew  her 
family,  reported  that  she  had  always  been  remarkably 
clever. 

A  stranger  in  the  town,  Miss  Rodney  was  recom- 
mended to  the  lodgings  of  Mrs.  Ducker,  a  churchwarden's 
widow ;  but  there  she  remained  only  for  a  week  or  two, 
and  it  was  understood  that  she  left  because  the  rooms 

124 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  125 

*  lacked  character.'  Some  persons  understood  this  as  an 
imputation  on  Mrs.  Ducker,  and  were  astonished  ;  others, 
who  caught  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Rodney's  meaning,  thought 
she  must  be  '  fanciful.'  Her  final  choice  of  an  abode 
gave  general  surprise,  for  though  the  street  was  one  of 
those  which  Wattleborough  opinion  classed  as  '  respect- 
able,' the  house  itself,  as  Miss  Rodney  might  have  learnt 
from  the  incumbent  of  St.  Luke's,  in  whose  parish  it 
was  situated,  had  objectionable  features.  Nothing  grave 
could  be  alleged  against  Mrs.  Turpin,  who  regularly 
attended  the  Sunday  evening  service ;  but  her  husband, 
a  carpenter,  spent  far  too  much  time  at  'The  Swan 
With  Two  Necks ' ;  and  then  there  was  a  lodger,  young 
Mr.  Rawcliffe,  concerning  whom  Wattleborough  had  for 
some  time  been  too  well  informed.  Of  such  comments 
upon  her  proceeding  Miss  Rodney  made  light ;  in  the 
aspect  of  the  rooms  she  found  a  certain  *  quaintness ' 
which  decidedly  pleased  her.  *  And  as  for  Mrs.  Grundy,' 
she  added,  '  je  m'enjkhe^  which  certain  ladies  of  culture 
declared  to  be  a  polite  expression  of  contempt. 

Miss  Rodney  never  wasted  time,  and  in  matters  of 
business  had  cultivated  a  notable  brevity.  Her  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Turpin,  when  she  engaged  the  rooms, 
occupied  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  in  that  space 
of  time  she  had  sufficiently  surveyed  the  house,  had 
learnt  all  that  seemed  necessary  as  to  its  occupants,  and 
had  stated  in  the  clearest  possible  way  her  present 
requirements. 

'  As  a  matter  of  course,'  was  her  closing  remark,  *  the 
rooms  will  be  thoroughly  cleaned  before  I  come  in.  At 
present  they  are  filthy.' 

The  landlady  was  too  much  astonished  to  reply  ;  Miss 
Rodney's  tones  and  bearing  had  so  impressed  her  that 


126  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

she  was  at  a  loss  for  her  usual  loquacity,  and  could  only 
stammer  respectfully  broken  answers  to  whatever  was 
asked.  Assuredly  no  one  had  ever  dared  to  tell  her 
that  her  lodgings  were  'filthy1 — any  ordinary  person 
who  had  ventured  upon  such  an  insult  would  have  been 
overwhelmed  with  clamorous  retort.  But  Miss  Rodney, 
with  a  pleasant  smile  and  nod,  went  her  way,  and  Mrs. 
Turpin  stood  at  the  open  door  gazing  after  her,  be- 
wildered 'twixt  satisfaction  and  resentment. 

She  was  an  easy-going,  wool-witted  creature,  not  ill- 
disposed,  but  sometimes  mendacious  and  very  indolent. 
Her  life  had  always  been  what  it  was  now — one  of 
slatternly  comfort  and  daylong  gossip,  for  she  came  of 
a  small  tradesman's  family,  and  had  married  an  artisan 
who  was  always  in  well-paid  work.  Her  children  were 
two  daughters,  who,  at  seventeen  and  fifteen,  remained 
in  the  house  with  her  doing  little  or  nothing,  though 
they  were  supposed  to  'wait  upon  the  lodgers.'  For 
some  months  only  two  of  the  four  rooms  Mrs.  Turpin 
was  able  to  let  had  been  occupied,  one  by  '  young  Mr. 
Rawcliffe,'  always  so  called,  though  his  age  was  nearly 
thirty,  but,  as  was  well  known,  he  belonged  to  the  'real 
gentry,'  and  Mrs.  Turpin  held  him  in  reverence  on  that 
account.  No  matter  for  his  little  weaknesses — of  which 
evil  tongues,  said  Mrs.  Turpin,  of  course  made  the  most. 
He  might  be  irregular  in  payment ;  he  might  come 
home  '  at  all  hours,'  and  make  unnecessary  noise  in  going 
upstairs ;  he  might  at  times  grumble  when  his  chop  was 
ill-cooked ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  might  occasionally 
be  '  a  little  too  free '  with  the  young  ladies — that  is  to  say, 
with  Mabel  and  Lily  Turpin ;  but  all  these  things  were 
forgiven  him  because  he  was  '  a  real  gentleman,'  and  spent 
just  as  little  time  as  he  liked  daily  in  a  solicitor's  office. 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  127 

Miss  Rodney  arrived  early  on  Saturday  afternoon. 
Smiling  and  silent,  she  saw  her  luggage  taken  up  to  the 
bedroom ;  she  paid  the  cabman ;  she  beckoned  her 
landlady  into  the  parlour,  which  was  on  the  ground- 
floor  front. 

*  You  haven't  had  time  yet,  Mrs.  Turpin,  to   clean 
the  rooms  ? ' 

The  landlady  stammered  a  half-indignant  surprise. 
Why,  she  and  her  daughters  had  given  the  room  a 
thorough  turn  out.  It  was  done  only  yesterday,  and 
hours  had  been  devoted  to  it. 

*  I  see,'  interrupted  Miss  Rodney,  with  quiet  decision, 
*  that  our  notions  of  cleanliness  differ  considerably.    I  'm 
going  out  now,  and  I  shall  not  be  back  till  six  o'clock. 
You  will  please  to  clean  the  bedroom  before  then.     The 
sitting-room  shall  be  done  on  Monday.' 

And  therewith  Miss  Rodney  left  the  house. 

On  her  return  she  found  the  bedroom  relatively  clean, 
and,  knowing  that  too  much  must  not  be  expected  at 
once,  she  made  no  comment.  That  night,  as  she  sat 
reading  at  eleven  o'clock,  a  strange  sound  arose  in  the 
back  part  of  the  house ;  it  was  a  man's  voice,  hilariously 
mirthful  and  breaking  into  rude  song.  After  listening 
for  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Rodney  rang  her  bell,  and  the 
landlady  appeared. 

*  Whose  voice  is  that  I  hear  ? ' 

*  Voice,  miss  ? ' 

*  Who  is  shouting  and  singing  ? '  asked  Miss  Rodney, 
in  a  disinterested  tone. 

'  I  'm  sorry  if  it  disturbs  you,  miss.  You  '11  hear  no 
more.' 

'  Mrs.  Turpin,  I  asked  who  it  was.' 

*  My  'usband,  miss.      But ' 


128  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

'  Thank  you.     Good  night,  Mrs.  Turpin.' 

There  was  quiet  for  an  hour  or  more.  At  something 
after  midnight,  when  Miss  Rodney  had  just  finished 
writing  half  a  dozen  letters,  there  sounded  a  latch-key 
in  the  front  door,  and  some  one  entered.  This  person, 
whoever  it  was,  seemed  to  stumble  about  the  passage  in 
the  dark,  and  at  length  banged  against  the  listener's 
door.  Miss  Rodney  started  up  and  flung  the  door  open. 
By  the  light  of  her  lamp  she  saw  a  moustachioed  face, 
highly  flushed,  and  grinning. 

*  Beg  pardon,1  cried  the  man,  in  a  voice  which  harmon- 
ised with  his  look  and  bearing.  '  Infernally  dark  here ; 
haven't  got  a  match.  You're  Miss — pardon — forgotten 
the  name  —  new  lodger.  Oblige  me  with  a  light  ? 
Thanks  awfully.1 

Without  a  word  Miss  Rodney  took  a  match-box 
from  her  chimney-piece,  entered  the  passage,  entered  the 
second  parlour — that  occupied  by  Mr.  Rawcliffe — and 
lit  a  candle  which  stood  on  the  table. 

( You  'II  be  so  kind,'  she  said,  looking  her  fellow- 
lodger  in  the  eyes,  '  as  not  to  set  the  house  on  fire.' 

'  Oh,  no  fear,'  he  replied,  with  a  high  laugh.  '  Quite 
accustomed.  Thanks  awfully,  Miss — pardon — forgotten 
the  name."* 

But  Miss  Rodney  was  back  in  her  sitting-room,  and 
had  closed  the  door. 

Her  breakfast  next  morning  was  served  by  Mabel 
Turpin,  the  elder  daughter,  a  stupidly  good-natured  girl, 
who  would  fain  have  entered  into  conversation.  Miss 
Rodney  replied  to  a  question  that  she  had  slept  well, 
and  added  that,  when  she  rang  her  bell,  she  would  like 
to  see  Mrs.  Turpin.  Twenty  minutes  later  the  landlady 
entered. 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  129 

'You  wanted  me,  miss?1  she  began,  in  what  was 
meant  for  a  voice  of  dignity  and  reserve.  *  I  don't  really 
wait  on  lodgers  myself.' 

'We'll  talk  about  that  another  time,  Mrs.  Turpin. 
I  wanted  to  say,  first  of  all,  that  you  have  spoiled  a 
piece  of  good  bacon  and  two  good  eggs.  I  must  trouble 
you  to  cook  better  than  this.' 

'  I  'm  very  sorry,  miss,  that  nothing  seems  to  suit 
you ' 

'  Oh,  we  shall  get  right  in  time  ! '  interrupted  Miss 
Rodney  cheerfully.  '  You  will  find  that  I  have  patience. 
Then  I  wanted  to  ask  you  whether  your  husband  and 
your  lodger  come  home  tipsy  every  night,  or  only  on 
Saturdays  ? ' 

The  woman  opened  her  eyes  as  wide  as  saucers,  trying 
hard  to  look  indignant. 

1  Tipsy,  miss  ? ' 

1  Well,  perhaps  I  should  have  said  "  drunk  " ;  I  beg 
your  pardon.' 

'  All  I  can  say,  miss,  is  that  young  Mr.  Rawcliffe  has 
never  behaved  himself  in  this  house  excepting  as  the 
gentleman  he  is.  You  don't  perhaps  know  that  he 
belongs  to  a  very  high-connected  family,  miss,  or  I  'm 
sure  you  wouldn't ' 

'  I  see,'  interposed  Miss  Rodney.  '  That  accounts 
for  it.  But  your  husband.  Is  he  highly  connected  ? ' 

'  I  'm  sure,  miss,  nobody  could  ever  say  that  my 
'usband  took  too  much — not  to  say  really  too  much. 
You  may  have  heard  him  a  bit  merry,  miss,  but  where 's 
the  harm  of  a  Saturday  night  ? ' 

'Thank  you.  Then  it  is  only  on  Saturday  nights 
that  Mr.  Turpin  becomes  merry.  I'm  glad  to  know 
that.  I  shall  get  used  to  these  little  things.' 


130  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

But  Mrs.  Turpin  did  not  feel  sure  that  she  would  get 
used  to  her  lodger.  Sunday  was  spoilt  for  her  by  this 
beginning.  When  her  husband  woke  from  his  pro- 
longed slumbers,  and  shouted  for  breakfast  (which  on 
this  day  of  rest  he  always  took  in  bed),  the  good  woman 
went  to  him  with  downcast  visage,  and  spoke  querulously 
of  Miss  Rodney's  behaviour. 

'  I  worft  wait  upon  her,  so  there  !  The  girls  may  do 
it,  and  if  she  isn't  satisfied  let  her  give  notice.  I  'm  sure 
I  shan't  be  sorry.  She 's  given  me  more  trouble  in  a 
day  than  poor  Mrs.  Brown  did  all  the  months  she  was 
here.  I  worft  be  at  her  beck  and  call,  so  there  ! ' 

Before  night  came  this  declaration  was  repeated 
times  innumerable,  and  as  it  happened  that  Miss  Rodney 
made  no  demand  for  her  landlady's  attendance,  the  good 
woman  enjoyed  a  sense  of  triumphant  self-assertion.  On 
Monday  morning  Mabel  took  in  the  breakfast,  and 
reported  that  Miss  Rodney  had  made  no  remark;  but, 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  the  bell  rang,  and  Mrs. 
Turpin  was  summoned.  Very  red  in  the  face,  she 
obeyed.  Having  civilly  greeted  her,  Miss  Rodney 
inquired  at  what  hour  Mr.  Turpin  took  his  breakfast, 
and  was  answered  with  an  air  of  surprise  that  he  always 
left  the  house  on  week-days  at  half-past  seven. 

'  In  that  case,'  said  Miss  Rodney,  '  I  will  ask  per- 
mission to  come  into  your  kitchen  at  a  quarter  to  eight 
to-morrow  morning,  to  show  you  how  to  fry  bacon  and 
boil  eggs.  You  mustn't  mind.  You  know  that  teach- 
ing is  my  profession.' 

Mrs.  Turpin,  nevertheless,  seemed  to  mind  very  much. 
Her  generally  good-tempered  face  wore  a  dogged  sullen- 
ness,  and  she  began  to  mutter  something  about  such  a 
thing  never  having  been  heard  of;  but  Miss  Rodney 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  131 

paid  •«<>-  heed,  renewed  the  appointment  for  the  next 
morning,  and  waved  a  cheerful  dismissal. 

Talking  with  a  friend  that  day,  the  High  School 
mistress  gave  a  humorous  description  of  her  lodgings, 
and  when  the  friend  remarked  that  they  must  be  very 
uncomfortable,  and  that  surely  she  would  not  stay  there, 
Miss  Rodney  replied  that  she  had  the  firmest  intention 
of  staying,  and,  what  was  more,  of  being  comfortable. 

*  I  'm  going  to  take  that  household  in  hand,1  she 
added.  *  The  woman  is  foolish,  but  can  be  managed,  I 
think,  with  a  little  patience.  I'm  going  to  tackle  the 
drunken  husband  as  soon  as  I  see  my  way.  And  as 
for  the  highly  connected  gentleman  whose  candle  I  had 
the  honour  of  lighting,  I  shall  turn  him  out.' 

'  You  have  your  work  set ! '  exclaimed  the  friend, 
laughing. 

'  Oh,  a  little  employment  for  my  leisure  !  This  kind 
of  thing  relieves  the  monotony  of  a  teacher's  life,  and 
prevents  one  from  growing  old.' 

Very  systematically  she  pursued  her  purpose  of  getting 
Mrs.  Turpin  '  in  hand.'  The  two  points  at  which  she 
first  aimed  were  the  keeping  clean  of  her  room  and  the 
decent  preparation  of  her  meals.  Never  losing  temper, 
never  seeming  to  notice  the  landlady's  sullen  mood, 
always  using  a  tone  of  legitimate  authority,  touched 
sometimes  with  humorous  compassion,  she  exacted 
obedience  to  her  directions,  but  was  well  aware  that  at 
any  moment  the  burden  of  a  new  civilisation  might 
prove  too  heavy  for  the  Turpin  family  and  cause  revolt. 
A  week  went  by ;  it  was  again  Saturday,  and  Miss 
Rodney  devoted  a  part  of  the  morning  (there  being  no 
school  to-day)  to  culinary  instruction.  Mabel  and  Lily 
shared  the  lesson  with  their  mother,  but  both  young 


132  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

ladies  wore  an  air  of  condescension,  and  grimaced  at 
Miss  Rodney  behind  her  back.  Mrs.  Turpin  was  obsti- 
nately mute.  The  pride  of  ignorance  stiffened  her  back- 
bone and  curled  her  lip. 

Miss  Rodney's  leisure  generally  had  its  task ;  though 
as  a  matter  of  principle  she  took  daily  exercise,  her 
walking  or  cycling  was  always  an  opportunity  for  think- 
ing something  out,  and  this  afternoon,  as  she  sped  on 
wheels  some  ten  miles  from  Wattleborough,  her  mind 
was  busy  with  the  problem  of  Mrs.  Turpin's  husband. 
From  her  clerical  friend  of  St.  Luke's  she  had  learnt 
that  Turpin  was  at  bottom  a  decent  sort  of  man,  rather 
intelligent,  and  that  it  was  only  during  the  last  year  or 
two  that  he  had  taken  to  passing  his  evenings  at  the 
public-house.  Causes  for  this  decline  could  be  suggested. 
The  carpenter  had  lost  his  only  son,  a  lad  of  whom  he 
was  very  fond ;  the  boy's  death  quite  broke  him  down 
at  the  time,  and  perhaps  he  had  begun  to  drink  as  a 
way  for  forgetting  his  trouble.  Perhaps,  too,  his  foolish, 
slatternly  wife  bore  part  of  the  blame,  for  his  home  had 
always  been  comfortless,  and  such  companionship  must, 
in  the  long-run,  tell  on  a  man.  Reflecting  upon  this, 
Miss  Rodney  had  an  idea,  and  she  took  no  time  in 
putting  it  into  practice.  When  Mabel  brought  in  her 
tea,  she  asked  the  girl  whether  her  father  was  at  home. 

'  I  think  he  is,  miss,'  was  the  distant  reply — for 
Mabel  had  been  bidden  by  her  mother  to  '  show  a 
proper  spirit '  when  Miss  Rodney  addressed  her. 

'You  think  so?  Will  you  please  make  sure,  and,  if 
you  are  right,  ask  Mr.  Turpin  to  be  so  kind  as  to  let 
me  have  a  word  with  him.' 

Startled  and  puzzled,  the  girl  left  the  room.  Miss 
Rodney  waited,  but  no  one  came.  When  ten  minutes 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  133 

had  elapsed  she  rang  the  bell.  A  few  minutes  more 
and  there  sounded  a  heavy  foot  in  the  passage ;  then  a 
heavy  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mr.  Turpin  presented 
himself.  He  was  a  short,  sturdy  man,  with  hair  and 
beard  of  the  hue  known  as  ginger,  and  a  face  which  told 
in  his  favour.  Vicious  he  could  assuredly  not  be,  with 
those  honest  grey  eyes ;  but  one  easily  imagined  him 
weak  in  character,  and  his  attitude  as  he  stood  just 
within  the  room,  half  respectful,  half  assertive,  betrayed 
an  embarrassment  altogether  encouraging  to  Miss  Rodney. 
In  her  pleasantest  tone  she  begged  him  to  be  seated. 

'  Thank  you,  miss,'  he  replied,  in  a  deep  voice,  which 
sounded  huskily,  but  had  nothing  of  surliness  ;  '  I  sup- 
pose you  want  to  complain  about  something,  and  I  'd 
rather  get  it  over  standing.1 

*I  was  not  going  to  make  any  complaint,  Mr. 
Turpin.1 

'  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,  miss ;  for  my  wife  wished 
me  to  say  she'd  done  about  all  she  could,  and  if 
things  weren't  to  your  liking,  she  thought  it  would 
be  best  for  all  if  you  suited  yourself  in  somebody  else's 
lodgings.' 

It  evidently  cost  the  man  no  little  effort  to  deliver 
his  message ;  there  was  a  nervous  twitching  about  his 
person,  and  he  could  not  look  Miss  Rodney  straight  in 
the  face.  She,  observant  of  this,  kept  a  very  steady  eye 
on  him,  and  spoke  with  all  possible  calmness. 

*  I  have  not  the  least  desire  to  change  my  lodgings, 
Mr.  Turpin.  Things  are  going  on  quite  well.  There  is 
an  improvement  in  the  cooking,  in  the  cleaning,  in  every- 
thing ;  and,  with  a  little  patience,  I  am  sure  we  shall  all 
come  to  understand  one  another.  What  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about  was  a  little  practical  matter  in  which 


134  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

you  may  be  able  to  help  me.  I  teach  mathematics  at 
the  High  School,  and  I  have  an  idea  that  I  might  make 
certain  points  in  geometry  easier  to  my  younger  girls  if 
I  could  demonstrate  them  in  a  mechanical  way.  Pray 
look  here.  You  see  the  shapes  I  have  sketched  on  this 
piece  of  paper ;  do  you  think  you  could  make  them  for 
me  in  wood  ? ' 

The  carpenter  was  moved  to  a  show  of  reluctant 
interest.  He  took  the  paper,  balanced  himself  now  on 
one  leg,  now  on  the  other,  and  said  at  length  that  he 
thought  he  saw  what  was  wanted.  Miss  Rodney,  com- 
ing to  his  side,  explained  in  more  detail ;  his  interest 
grew  more  active. 

'That's  Euclid,  miss?' 

'  To  be  sure.      Do  you  remember  your  Euclid  ? ' 

*  My  own  schooling  never  went  as  far  as  that,'  he 
replied,  in  a  muttering  voice  ;  *  but  my  Harry  used  to  do 
Euclid  at  the  Grammar  School,  and  I  got  into  a  sort  of 
way  of  doing  it  with  him.' 

Miss  Rodney  kept  a  moment's  silence ;  then  quietly 
and  kindly  she  asked  one  or  two  questions  about  the 
boy  who  had  died.  The  father  answered  in  an  awkward, 
confused  way,  as  if  speaking  only  by  constraint. 

'Well,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,  miss,'  he  added 
abruptly,  folding  the  paper  to  take  away.  '  You  'd  like 
them  soon  ? ' 

'  Yes.  I  was  going  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Turpin,  whether 
you  could  do  them  this  evening.  Then  I  should  have 
them  for  Monday  morning.' 

Turpin  hesitated,  shuffled  his  feet,  and  seemed  to 
reflect  uneasily ;  but  he  said  at  length  that  he  '  would 
see  about  it,'  and,  with  a  rough  bow,  got  out  of  the 
room.  That  night  no  hilarious  sounds  came  from  the 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  135 

kitchen.  On  Sunday  morning,  when  Miss  Rodney  went 
into  her  sitting-room,  she  found  on  the  table  the  wooden 
geometrical  forms,  excellently  made,  just  as  she  wished. 
Mabel,  who  came  with  breakfast,  was  bidden  to  thank 
her  father,  and  to  say  that  Miss  Rodney  would  like  to 
speak  with  him  again,  if  his  leisure  allowed,  after  tea- 
time  on  Monday.  At  that  hour  the  carpenter  did  not 
fail  to  present  himself,  distrustful  still,  but  less  em- 
barrassed. Miss  Rodney  praised  his  work,  and  desired 
to  pay  for  it.  Oh  !  that  wasn't  worth  talking  about, 
said  Turpin ;  but  the  lady  insisted,  and  money  changed 
hands.  This  piece  of  business  transacted,  Miss  Rodney 
produced  a  Euclid,  and  asked  Turpin  to  show  her  how 
far  he  had  gone  in  it  with  his  boy  Harry.  The  subject 
proved  fruitful  of  conversation.  It  became  evident  that 
the  carpenter  had  a  mathematical  bias,  and  could  be 
readily  interested  in  such  things  as  geometrical  pro- 
blems. Why  should  he  not  take  up  the  subject 
again  ? 

'  Nay,  miss,'  replied  Turpin,  speaking  at  length  quite 
naturally ;  *  I  shouldn't  have  the  heart.  If  my  Harry 
had  lived ' 

But  Miss  Rodney  stuck  to  the  point,  and  succeeded 
in  making  him  promise  that  he  would  get  out  the  old 
Euclid  and  have  a  look  at  it  in  his  leisure  time.  As  he 
withdrew,  the  man  had  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  honest 
face. 

On  the  next  Saturday  evening  the  house  was  again 
quiet. 

Meanwhile,  relations  between  Mrs.  Turpin  and  her 
lodger  were  becoming  less  strained.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  the  flabby,  foolish  woman  had  to  do  with  a 
person  of  firm  will  and  bright  intelligence ;  not  being 


136  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

vicious  of  temper,  she  necessarily  felt  herself  submitting 
to  domination,  and  darkly  surmised  that  the  rule  might 
in  some  way  be  for  her  good.  All  the  sluggard  and  the 
slattern  in  her,  all  the  obstinacy  of  lifelong  habits,  hung 
back  from  the  new  things  which  Miss  Rodney  was  forc- 
ing upon  her  acceptance,  but  she  was  no  longer  moved 
by  active  resentment.  To  be  told  that  she  cooked  badly 
had  long  ceased  to  be  an  insult,  and  was  becoming 
merely  a  worrying  truism.  That  she  lived  in  dirt  there 
seemed  no  way  of  denying,  and  though  every  muscle 
groaned,  she  began  to  look  upon  the  physical  exertion 
of  dusting  and  scrubbing  as  part  of  her  lot  in  life. 
Why  she  submitted,  Mrs.  Turpin  could  not  have  told 
you.  And,  as  was  presently  to  be  seen,  there  were 
regions  of  her  mind  still  unconquered,  instincts  of  resist- 
ance which  yet  had  to  come  into  play. 

For,  during  all  this  time,  Miss  Rodney  had  had  her 
eye  on  her  fellow-lodger,  Mr.  Rawcliffe,  and  the  more 
she  observed  this  gentleman,  the  more  resolute  she 
became  to  turn  him  out  of  the  house ;  but  it  was  plain 
to  her  that  the  undertaking  would  be  no  easy  one.  In 
the  landlady's  eyes  Mr.  Rawcliffe,  though  not  perhaps  a 
faultless  specimen  of  humanity,  conferred  an  honour  on 
her  house  by  residing  in  it ;  the  idea  of  giving  him 
notice  to  quit  was  inconceivable  to  her.  This  came  out 
very  clearly  in  the  first  frank  conversation  which  Miss 
Rodney  held  with  her  on  the  topic.  It  happened  that 
Mr.  Rawcliffe  had  passed  an  evening  at  home,  in  the 
company  of  his  friends.  After  supping  together,  the 
gentlemen  indulged  in  merriment  which,  towards  mid- 
night, became  uproarious.  In  the  morning  Mrs.  Turpin 
mumbled  a  shamefaced  apology  for  this  disturbance  of 
Miss  Rodney's  repose. 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  137 

*  Why  don't  you  take  this  opportunity  and  get  rid  of 
him  ? '  asked  the  lodger  in  her  matter-of-fact  tone. 

'  Oh,  miss  ! 

'  Yes,  it 's  your  plain  duty  to  do  so.  He  gives  your 
house  a  bad  character ;  he  sets  a  bad  example  to  your 
husband ;  he  has  a  bad  influence  on  your  daughters.' 

«  Oh  !  miss,  I  don't  think ' 

'  Just  so,  Mrs.  Turpin  ;  you  don't  think.  If  you  had, 
you  would  long  ago  have  noticed  that  his  behaviour  to 
those  girls  is  not  at  all  such  as  it  should  be.  More 
than  once  I  have  chanced  to  hear  bits  of  talk,  when 
either  Mabel  or  Lily  was  in  his  sitting-room,  and  didn't 
like  the  tone  of  it.  In  plain  English,  the  man  is  a 
blackguard.' 

Mrs.  Turpin  gasped. 

*  But,  miss,  you  forget  what  family  he  belongs  to.' 

*  Don't  be  a  simpleton,  Mrs.   Turpin.      The  black- 
guard is  found  in  every  rank  of  life.     Now,  suppose  you 
go  to  him  as  soon  as  he  gets  up,  and  quietly  give  him 
notice.      You've  no  idea  how  much  better  you  would 
feel  after  it.' 

But  Mrs.  Turpin  trembled  at  the  suggestion.  It  was 
evident  that  no  ordinary  argument  or  persuasion  would 
bring  her  to  such  a  step.  Miss  Rodney  put  the  matter 
aside  for  the  moment. 

She  had  found  no  difficulty  in  getting  information 
about  Mr.  Rawcliffe.  It  was  true  that  he  belonged  to 
a  family  of  some  esteem  in  the  Wattleborough  neigh- 
bourhood, but  his  father  had  died  in  embarrassed  circum- 
stances, and  his  mother  was  now  the  wife  of  a  prosperous 
merchant  in  another  town.  To  his  stepfather  Rawcliffe 
owed  an  expensive  education  and  two  or  three  starts  in 
life.  He  was  in  his  second  year  of  articles  to  a  Wattle- 


138  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

borough  solicitor,  but  there  seemed  little  probability  of 
his  ever  earning  a  living  by  the  law,  and  reports  of  his 
excesses  which  reached  the  stepfather's  ears  had  begun 
to  make  the  young  man's  position  decidedly  precarious. 
The  incumbent  of  St.  Luke's,  whom  Rawcliffe  had  more 
than  once  insulted,  took  much  interest  in  Miss  Rodney's 
design  against  this  common  enemy ;  he  could  not  him- 
self take  active  part  in  the  campaign,  but  he  never  met 
the  High  School  mistress  without  inquiring  what  pro- 
gress she  had  made.  The  conquest  of  Turpin,  who 
now  for  several  weeks  had  kept  sober,  and  spent  his 
evenings  in  mathematical  study,  was  a  most  encom-aging 
circumstance ;  but  Miss  Rodney  had  no  thought  of  using 
her  influence  over  her  landlady's  husband  to  assail  Raw- 
cliffe's  position.  She  would  rely  upon  herself  alone,  in 
this  as  in  all  other  undertakings. 

Only  by  constant  watchfulness  and  energy  did  she 
maintain  her  control  over  Mrs.  Turpin,  who  was  ready 
at  any  moment  to  relapse  into  her  old  slatternly  ways. 
It  was  not  enough  to  hold  the  ground  that  had  been 
gained ;  there  must  be  progressive  conquest ;  and  to 
this  end  Miss  Rodney  one  day  broached  a  subject  which 
had  already  been  discussed  between  her  and  her  clerical 
ally. 

'Why  do  you  keep  both  your  girls  at  home,  Mrs. 
Turpin  ? '  she  asked. 

'  What  should  I  do  with  them,  miss  ?  I  don't  hold 
with  sending  girls  into  shops,  or  else  they've  an  aunt  in 
Birmingham,  who 's  manageress  of ' 

*  That  isn't  my  idea,'  interposed  Miss  Rodney  quietly. 
1 1  have  been  asked  if  I  knew  of  a  girl  who  would  go 
into  a  country-house  not  far  from  here  as  second 
housemaid,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  Lily ' 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  139 

A  sound  of  indignant  protest  escaped  the  landlady, 
which  Miss  Rodney,  steadily  regarding  her,  purposely 
misinterpreted. 

*  No,  no,  of  course,  she  is  not  really  capable  of  taking 
such  a  position.     But  the  lady  of  whom  I  am  speaking 
would  not  mind  an  untrained  girl,  who  came  from  a 
decent  house.     Isn't  it  worth  thinking  of  ? ' 

Mrs.  Turpin  was  red  with  suppressed  indignation,  but 
as  usual  she  could  not  look  her  lodger  defiantly  in  the 
face. 

*  We  're  not  so  poor,  miss,'  she  exclaimed,  *  that  we 
need  send  our  daughters  into  service.' 

'  Why,  of  course  not,  Mrs.  Turpin,  and  that 's  one  of 
the  reasons  why  Lily  might  suit  this  lady.' 

But  here  was  another  rock  of  resistance  which  pro- 
mised to  give  Miss  Rodney  a  good  deal  of  trouble.  The 
landlady's  pride  was  outraged,  and  after  the  manner  of 
the  inarticulate  she  could  think  of  no  adequate  reply 
save  that  which  took  the  form  of  personal  abuse.  Re- 
strained from  this  by  more  than  one  consideration,  she 
stood  voiceless,  her  bosom  heaving. 

*  Well,  you  shall  think  it  over,'  said  Miss  Rodney, 
*  and  we  '11  speak  of  it  again  in  a  day  or  two.' 

Mrs.  Turpin,  without  another  word,  took  herself  out 
of  the  room. 

Save  for  that  singular  meeting  on  Miss  Rodney's  first 
night  in  the  house,  Mr.  Rawcliffe  and  the  energetic 
lady  had  held  no  intercourse  whatever.  Their  parlours 
being  opposite  each  other  on  the  ground  floor,  they 
necessarily  came  face  to  face  now  and  then,  but  the 
High  School  mistress  behaved  as  though  she  saw  no  one, 
and  the  solicitor's  clerk,  after  one  or  two  attempts  at 
polite  formality,  adopted  a  like  demeanour.  The  man's 


140  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

proximity  caused  his  neighbour  a  ceaseless  irritation ; 
of  all  objectionable  types  of  humanity,  this  loafing  and 
boozing  degenerate  was,  to  Miss  Rodney,  perhaps  the 
least  endurable ;  his  mere  countenance  excited  her 
animosity,  for  feebleness  and  conceit,  things  abhorrent 
to  her,  were  legible  in  every  line  of  the  trivial  features ; 
and  a  full  moustache,  evidently  subjected  to  training, 
served  only  as  emphasis  of  foppish  imbecility.  *  I  could 
beat  him  ! '  she  exclaimed  more  than  once  within  herself, 
overcome  with  contemptuous  wrath,  when  she  passed  Mr. 
Rawcliffe.  And,  indeed,  had  it  been  possible  to  settle 
the  matter  thus  simply,  no  doubt  Mr.  RawclifiVs  rooms 
would  very  soon  have  been  vacant. 

The  crisis  upon  which  Miss  Rodney  had  resolved 
came  about,  quite  unexpectedly,  one  Sunday  evening. 
Mrs.  Turpin  and  her  daughters  had  gone,  as  usual,  to 
church,  the  carpenter  had  gone  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  a 
neighbour,  and  Mr.  Rawcliffe  believed  himself  alone  in 
the  house.  But  Miss  Rodney  was  not  at  church  this 
evening ;  she  had  a  headache,  and  after  tea  lay  down  in 
her  bedroom  for  a  while.  Soon  impatient  of  repose, 
she  got  up  and  went  to  her  parlour.  The  door,  to  her 
surprise,  was  partly  open ;  entering — the  tread  of  her 
slippered  feet  was  noiseless — she  beheld  an  astonishing 
spectacle.  Before  her  writing-table,  his  back  turned 
to  her,  stood  Mr.  Rawcliffe,  engaged  in  the  deliberate 
perusal  of  a  letter  which  he  had  found  there.  For  a 
moment  she  observed  him ;  then  she  spoke. 

'  What  business  have  you  here  ? ' 

Rawcliffe  gave  such  a  start  that  he  almost  jumped 
from  the  ground.  His  face,  as  he  put  down  the  letter 
and  turned,  was  that  of  a  gibbering  idiot ;  his  lips  moved, 
but  no  sound  came  from  them. 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  141 

*  What  are  you  doing  in  my  room  ? '  demanded  Miss 
Rodney,  in  her  severest  tones. 

'  I  really  beg  your  pardon — I  really  beg ' 

'  I  suppose  this  is  not  the  first  visit  with  which  you 
have  honoured  me  ? ' 

'  The  first — indeed — I  assure  you — the  very  first ! 
A  foolish  curiosity ;  I  really  feel  quite  ashamed  of  my- 
self;  I  throw  myself  upon  your  indulgence.1 

The  man  had  become  voluble ;  he  approached  Miss 
Rodney  smiling  in  a  sickly  way,  his  head  bobbing 
forward. 

*  It 's  something,1  she  replied,  '  that  you  have  still  the 
grace  to  feel  ashamed.     Well,  there 's  no  need  for  us  to 
discuss   this   matter;  it  can   have,  of  course,  only  one 
result.     To-morrow  morning  you  will  oblige  me  by  giv- 
ing notice  to  Mrs.  Turpin — a  week's  notice.' 

*  Leave  the  house  ? '  exclaimed  Rawcliffe. 

'  On  Saturday  next — or  as  much  sooner  as  you  like.' 

'  Oh  !  but  really ' 

'  As  you  please,'  said  Miss  Rodney,  looking  him 
sternly  in  the  face.  '  In  that  case  I  complain  to  the 
landlady  of  your  behaviour,  and  insist  on  her  getting  rid 
of  you.  You  ought  to  have  been  turned  out  long  ago. 
You  are  a  nuisance,  and  worse  than  a  nuisance.  Be  so 
good  as  to  leave  the  room.' 

Rawcliffe,  his  shoulders  humped,  moved  towards  the 
door;  but  before  reaching  it  he  stopped  and  said 
doggedly — 

'  I  carit  give  notice.' 

*  Why  not?' 

*  I  owe  Mrs.  Turpin  money.' 

'  Naturally.     But  you  will  go,  all  the  same.' 
A  vicious  light  flashed  into  the  man's  eyes. 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

'  If  it  comes  to  that,  I  shall  not  go  ! ' 

*  Indeed  ? '    said    Miss    Rodney    calmly    and    coldly. 
*  We  will   see  about  it.      In  the  meantime,  leave   the 
room,  sir ! ' 

Rawcliffe  nodded,  grinned,  and  withdrew. 

Late  that  evening  there  was  a  conversation  between 
Miss  Rodney  and  Mrs.  Turpin.  The  landlady,  though 
declaring  herself  horrified  at  what  had  happened,  did 
her  best  to  plead  for  Mr.  Rawcliffe's  forgiveness,  and 
would  not  be  brought  to  the  point  of  promising  to  give 
him  notice. 

*  Very  well,  Mrs.  Turpin,'  said  Miss  Rodney  at  length, 
'  either  he  leaves  the  house  or  I  do.' 

Resolved,  as  she  was,  not  to  quit  her  lodgings,  this 
was  a  bold  declaration.  A  meeker  spirit  would  have 
trembled  at  the  possibility  that  Mrs.  Turpin  might  be 
only  too  glad  to  free  herself  from  a  subjection  which, 
again  and  again,  had  all  but  driven  her  to  extremities. 
But  Miss  Rodney  had  the  soul  of  a  conqueror ;  she  saw 
only  her  will,  and  the  straight  way  to  it. 

*  To  tell  you  the  truth,  miss,'  said  the  landlady,  sore 
perplexed,  '  he 's  rather  backward  with  his  rent ' 

*  Very  foolish  of  you  to  have  allowed  him  to  get  into 
your  debt.     The  probability  is  that  he  would  never  pay 
his  arrears ;  they  will  only  increase,  the  longer  he  stays. 
But  I  have  no  more  time  to  spare  at  present.     Please 
understand  that  by  Saturday  next  it  must  be  settled 
which  of  your  lodgers  is  to  go.' 

Mrs.  Turpin  had  never  been  so  worried.  The  more 
she  thought  of  the  possibility  of  Miss  Rodney's  leaving 
the  house,  the  less  did  she  like  it.  Notwithstanding 
Mr.  Rawcliffe's  '  family,'  it  was  growing  clear  to  her 
that,  as  a  stamp  of  respectability  and  a  source  of  credit, 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  143 

the  High  School  mistress  was  worth  more  than  the 
solicitor's  clerk.  Then  there  was  the  astonishing  change 
that  had  come  over  Turpin,  owing,  it  seemed,  to  his 
talk  with  Miss  Rodney;  the  man  spent  all  his  leisure 
time  in  'making  shapes  and  figuring1 — just  as  he  used 
to  do  when  poor  Harry  was  at  the  Grammar  School. 
If  Miss  Rodney  disappeared,  it  seemed  only  too  probable 
that  Turpin  would  be  off  again  to  '  The  Swan  With 
Two  Necks.1  On  the  other  hand,  the  thought  of  '  giving 
notice '  to  Mr.  Rawcliffe  caused  her  something  like  dis- 
may ;  how  could  she  have  the  face  to  turn  a  real  gentle- 
man out  of  her  house  ?  Yes,  but  was  it  not  true  that 
she  had  lost  money  by  him — and  stood  to  lose  more  ? 
She  had  never  dared  to  tell  her  husband  of  Mr.  Raw- 
clifiVs  frequent  shortcomings  in  the  matter  of  weekly 
payments.  When  the  easy-going  young  man  smiled 
and  nodded,  and  said,  *  It  "II  be  all  right,  you  know,  Mrs. 
Turpin ;  you  can  trust  me,  I  hope,1  she  could  do  nothing 
but  acquiesce.  And  Mr.  Rawcliffe  was  more  and  more 
disposed  to  take  advantage  of  this  weakness.  If  she 
could  find  courage  to  go  through  with  the  thing,  per- 
haps she  would  be  glad  when  it  was  over. 

Three  days  went  by.  Rawcliffe  led  an  unusually 
quiet  and  regular  life.  There  came  the  day  on  which 
his  weekly  bill  was  presented.  Mrs.  Turpin  brought  it 
in  person  at  breakfast,  and  stood  with  it  in  her  hand, 
an  image  of  vacillation.  Her  lodger  made  one  of  his 
familiar  jokes ;  she  laughed  feebly.  No ;  the  words 
would  not  come  to  her  lips  ;  she  was  physically  incapable 
of  giving  him  notice. 

'  By  the  bye,  Mrs.  Turpin,1  said  Rawcliffe  in  an  off- 
hand way,  as  he  glanced  at  the  bill,  '  how  much  exactly 
do  I  owe  you  ? 1 


144  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

Pleasantly  agitated,  his  landlady  mentioned  the  sum. 

*  Ah !     I  must  settle  that.     I   tell  you  what,  Mrs. 
Turpin.     Let   it   stand   over  for  another   month,   and 
we'll  square  things  up  at  Christmas.      Will  that  suit 
you  ? ' 

And,  by  way  of  encouragement,  he  paid  his  week's 
account  on  the  spot,  without  a  penny  of  deduction. 
Mrs.  Turpin  left  the  room  in  greater  embarrassment 
than  ever. 

Saturday  came.  At  breakfast  Miss  Rodney  sent  for 
the  landlady,  who  made  a  timid  appearance  just  within 
the  room. 

'  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Turpin.  What  news  have  you 
for  me  ?  You  know  what  I  mean  ? ' 

The  landlady  took  a  step  forward,  and  began  babbling 
excuses,  explanations,  entreaties.  She  was  coldly  and 
decisively  interrupted. 

*  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Turpin,  that  will    do.     A  week 
to-day  I  leave.' 

With  a  sound  which  was  half  a  sob  and  half  grunt 
Mrs.  Turpin  bounced  from  the  room.  It  was  now  in- 
evitable that  she  should  report  the  state  of  things  to  her 
husband,  and  that  evening  half  an  hour's  circumlocution 
brought  her  to  the  point.  Which  of  the  two  lodgers 
should  go  ?  The  carpenter  paused,  pipe  in  mouth, 
before  him  a  geometrical  figure  over  which  he  had 
puzzled  for  a  day  or  two,  and  about  which,  if  he  could 
find  courage,  he  wished  to  consult  the  High  School 
mistress.  He  reflected  for  five  minutes,  and  uttered 
an  unhesitating  decision.  Mr.  Rawcliffe  must  go. 
Naturally,  his  wife  broke  into  indignant  clamour,  and 
the  debate  lasted  for  an  hour  or  two ;  but  Turpin  could 
be  firm  when  he  liked,  and  he  had  solid  reasons  for 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  145 

preferring  to  keep  Miss  Rodney  in  the  house.  At 
four  o'clock  Mrs.  Turpin  crept  softly  to  the  sitting- 
room  where  her  offended  lodger  was  quietly  reading. 

1 1  wanted  just  to  say,  miss,  that  I  'm  willing  to  give 
Mr.  Rawcliffe  notice  next  Wednesday.' 

*  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Turpin,'  was  the  cold  reply.     *  I 
have  already  taken  other  rooms.' 

The  landlady  gasped,  and  for  a  moment  could  say 
nothing.  Then  she  besought  Miss  Rodney  to  change 
her  mind.  Mr.  Rawcliffe  should  leave,  indeed  he  should, 
on  Wednesday  week.  But  Miss  Rodney  had  only  one 
reply ;  she  had  found  other  rooms  that  suited  her,  and 
she  requested  to  be  left  in  peace. 

At  eleven  Mr.  Rawcliffe  came  home.  He  was  un- 
naturally sober,  for  Saturday  night,  and  found  his  way 
into  the  parlour  without  difficulty.  There  in  a  minute 
or  two  he  was  confronted  by  his  landlady  and  her 
husband :  they  closed  the  door  behind  them,  and  stood 
in  a  resolute  attitude. 

'  Mr.  Rawcliffe,'  began  Turpin,  *  you  must  leave  these 
lodgings,  sir,  on  Wednesday  next.' 

*  Hullo !   what 's   all   this   about  ? '  cried    the   other. 
4  What  do  you  mean,  Turpin  ? ' 

The  carpenter  made  plain  his  meaning ;  spoke  of  Miss 
Rodney's  complaint,  of  the  irregular  payment  (for  his 
wife,  in  her  stress,  had  avowed  everything),  and  of  other 
subjects  of  dissatisfaction  ;  the  lodger  must  go,  there  was 
an  end  of  it.  Rawcliffe,  putting  on  all  his  dignity, 
demanded  the  legal  week's  notice ;  Turpin  demanded 
the  sum  in  arrear.  There  was  an  exchange  of  high 
words,  and  the  interview  ended  with  mutual  defiance. 
A  moment  after  Turpin  and  his  wife  knocked  at  Miss 
Rodney's  door,  for  she  was  still  in  her  parlour.  There 

I 


146  MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE 

followed  a  brief  conversation,  with  the  result  that  Miss 
Rodney  graciously  consented  to  remain,  on  the  under- 
standing that  Mr.  Rawcliffe  left  the  house  not  later  than 
Wednesday. 

Enraged  at  the  treatment  he  was  receiving,  Rawcliffe 
loudly  declared  that  he  would  not  budge.  Turpin  warned 
him  that  if  he  had  made  no  preparations  for  departure 
on  Wednesday  he  would  be  forcibly  ejected,  and  the  door 
closed  against  him. 

'  You  haven't  the  right  to  do  it,1  shouted  the  lodger. 
'  I  '11  sue  you  for  damages.1 

1  And  I,1  retorted  the  carpenter,  *  will  sue  you  for  the 
money  you  owe  me  ! " 

The  end  could  not  be  doubtful.  Rawcliffe,  besides 
being  a  poor  creature,  knew  very  well  that  it  was 
dangerous  for  him  to  get  involved  in  a  scandal ;  his 
stepfather,  upon  whom  he  depended,  asked  but  a  fair 
excuse  for  cutting  him  adrift,  and  more  than  one  grave 
warning  had  come  from  his  mother  during  the  past  few 
months.  But  he  enjoyed  a  little  blustering,  and  even 
at  breakfast-time  on  Wednesday  his  attitude  was  that 
of  contemptuous  defiance.  In  vain  had  Mrs.  Turpin 
tried  to  coax  him  with  maternal  suavity ;  in  vain  had 
Mabel  and  Lily,  when  serving  his  meals,  whispered  abuse 
of  Miss  Rodney,  and  promised  to  find  some  way  of  get- 
ting rid  of  her,  so  that  Rawcliffe  might  return.  In  a 
voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  his  enemy  in  the 
opposite  parlour,  he  declared  that  no  *  cat  of  a  school 
teacher  should  get  the  better  of  him."1  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  however,  he  arranged  on  Tuesday  evening  to 
take  a  couple  of  cheaper  rooms  just  outside  the  town, 
and  ordered  a  cab  to  come  for  him  at  eleven  next 
morning. 


MISS  RODNEY'S  LEISURE  147 

'You  know  what  the  understanding  is,  Mr.  Raw- 
cliffe,'  said  Turpin,  putting  his  head  into  the  room 
as  the  lodger  sat  at  breakfast.  *  I  'm  a  man  of  my 
word.' 

*  Don't  come  bawling  here ! '  cried  the  other,  with  a 
face  of  scorn. 

And  at  noon  the  house  knew  him  no  more. 

Miss  Rodney,  on  that  same  day,  was  able  to  offer 
her  landlady  a  new  lodger.  She  had  not  spoken  of 
this  before,  being  resolved  to  triumph  by  mere  force 
of  will. 

'  The  next  thing,'  she  remarked  to  a  friend,  when  tell- 
ing the  story,  *is  to  pack  off  one  of  the  girls  into 
service.  I  shall  manage  it  by  Christmas,'  and  she  added 
with  humorous  complacency,  '  it  does  one  good  to  be 
making  a  sort  of  order  in  one's  own  little  corner  of  the 
world.' 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

'  I  MUST  be  firm,1  said  Miss  Shepperson  to  herself,  as  she 
poured  out  her  morning  tea  with  tremulous  hand.  '  I 
must  really  be  very  firm  with  them.1 

Firmness  was  not  the  most  legible  characteristic  of 
Miss  Shepperson's  physiognomy.  A  plain  woman  of 
something  more  than  thirty,  she  had  gentle  eyes,  a 
twitching  forehead,  and  lips  ever  ready  for  a  sympathetic 
smile.  Her  attire,  a  little  shabby,  a  little  disorderly,  well 
became  the  occupant  of  furnished  lodgings,  at  twelve  and 
sixpence  a  week,  in  the  unpretentious  suburb  of  Acton. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Hammersmith  draper,  at 
whose  death,  a  few  years  ago,  she  had  become  possessed 
of  a  small  house  and  an  income  of  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 
her  two  elder  sisters  were  comfortably  married  to  London 
tradesmen,  but  she  did  not  see  very  much  of  them,  for 
their  ways  were  not  hers,  and  Miss  Shepperson  had 
always  been  one  of  those  singular  persons  who  shrink  into 
solitude  the  moment  they  feel  ill  at  ease.  The  house 
which  was  her  property  had,  until  of  late,  given  her  no 
trouble  at  all ;  it  stood  in  a  quiet  part  of  Hammersmith, 
and  had  long  been  occupied  by  good  tenants,  who  paid 
their  rent  (fifty  pounds)  with  exemplary  punctuality ; 
repairs,  of  course,  would  now  and  then  be  called  for,  and 
to  that  end  Miss  Shepperson  carefully  put  aside  a  few 

pounds  every  year.      Unhappily,  the  old  tenants  were  at 
US 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  149 

length  obliged  to  change  their  abode.  The  house  stood 
empty  for  two  months  ;  it  was  then  taken  on  a  three 
years1  lease  by  a  family  named  Rymer — really  nice 
people,  said  Miss  Shepperson  to  herself  after  her  first 
interview  with  them.  Mr.  Rymer  was  '  in  the  City ' ; 
Mrs.  Rymer,  who  had  two  little  girls,  lived  only  for 
domestic  peace — she  had  been  in  better  circumstances, 
but  did  not  repine,  and  forgot  all  worldly  ambition  in 
the  happy  discharge  of  her  wifely  and  maternal  duties. 
*  A  charming  family ! '  was  Miss  Shepperson's  mental 
comment  when,  at  their  invitation,  she  had  called 
one  Sunday  afternoon  soon  after  they  were  settled  in 
the  house ;  and,  on  the  way  home  to  her  lodgings,  she 
sighed  once  or  twice,  thinking  of  Mrs.  Rymer's  bliss- 
ful smile  and  the  two  pretty  children. 

The  first  quarter's  rent  was  duly  paid,  but  the  second 
quarter-day  brought  no  cheque ;  and,  after  the  lapse  of 
a  fortnight,  Miss  Shepperson  wrote  to  make  known  her 
ingenuous  fear  that  Mr.  Rymer's  letter  might  have  mis- 
carried. At  once  there  came  the  politest  and  friendliest 
reply.  Mr.  Rymer  (wrote  his  wife)  was  out  of  town,  and 
had  been  so  overwhelmed  with  business  that  the  matter 
of  the  rent  must  have  altogether  escaped  his  mind  ;  he 
would  be  back  in  a  day  or  two,  and  the  cheque  should 
be  sent  at  the  earliest  possible  moment ;  a  thousand 
apologies  for  this  unpardonable  neglect.  Still  the  cheque 
did  not  come  ;  another  quarter-day  arrived,  and  again  no 
rent  was  paid.  It  was  now  a  month  after  Christmas,  and 
Miss  Shepperson,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  found  her 
accounts  in  serious  disorder.  This  morning  she  had  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Rymer,  the  latest  of  a  dozen  or  so,  all 
in  the  same  strain — 

*  I  really  feel  quite  ashamed  to  take  up  the  pen,'  wrote 


150  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

the  graceful  lady,  in  her  delicate  hand.  *  What  must 
you  think  of  us  !  I  assure  you  that  never,  never  before 
did  I  find  myself  in  such  a  situation.  Indeed,  I  should 
not  have  the  courage  to  write  at  all,  but  that  the  end  of 
our  troubles  is  already  in  view.  It  is  absolutely  certain 
that,  in  a  month's  time,  Mr.  Rymer  will  be  able  to  send 
you  a  cheque  in  complete  discharge  of  his  debt.  Mean- 
while, I  beg  you  to  believe,  dear  Miss  Shepperson,  how 
very,  very  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your  most  kind  for- 
bearance.1 Another  page  of  almost  affectionate  protests 
closed  with  the  touching  subscription,  '  ever  yours,  sin- 
cerely and  gratefully,  Adelaide  Rymer.' 

But  Miss  Shepperson  had  fallen  into  that  state  of 
nervous  agitation  which  impels  to  a  decisive  step.  She 
foresaw  the  horrors  of  pecuniary  embarrassment.  Her 
faith  in  the  Rymers1  promises  was  exhausted.  This  very 
morning  she  would  go  to  see  Mrs.  Rymer,  lay  before  her 
the  plain  facts  of  the  case,  and  with  all  firmness — with 
unmistakable  resolve — make  known  to  her  that,  if  the 
arrears  were  not  paid  within  a  month,  notice  to  quit 
would  be  given,  and  the  recovery  of  the  debt  be  sought 
by  legal  process.  Fear  had  made  Miss  Shepperson 
indignant ;  it  was  wrong  and  cowardly  for  people  such 
as  the  Rymers  to  behave  in  this  way  to  a  poor  woman 
who  had  only  just  enough  to  live  upon.  She  felt  sure 
that  they  could  pay  if  they  liked ;  but  because  she  had 
shown  herself  soft  and  patient,  they  took  advantage  of 
her.  She  would  be  firm,  very  firm. 

So,  about  ten  o'clock,  Miss  Shepperson  put  on  her 
best  things,  and  set  out  for  Hammersmith.  It  was  a 
foggy,  drizzly,  enervating  day.  When  Miss  Shepperson 
found  herself  drawing  near  to  the  house,  her  courage 
sank,  her  heart  throbbed  painfully,  and  for  a  moment 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  151 

she  all  but  stopped  and  turned,  thinking  that  it  would 
be  much  better  to  put  her  ultimatum  into  writing. 
Yet  there  was  the  house  in  view,  and  to  turn  back 
would  be  deplorable  weakness.  By  word  of  mouth 
she  could  so  much  better  depict  the  gravity  of  her 
situation.  She  forced  herself  onwards.  Trembling 
in  every  nerve,  she  rang  the  bell,  and  in  a  scarce 
audible  gasp  she  asked  for  Mrs.  Rymer.  A  brief  delay, 
and  the  servant  admitted  her. 

Mrs.  Rymer  was  in  the  drawing-room,  giving  her 
elder  child  a  piano-lesson,  while  the  younger,  sitting  in 
a  baby-chair  at  the  table,  turned  over  a  picture-book. 
The  room  was  comfortably  and  prettily  furnished ;  the 
children  were  very  becomingly  dressed ;  their  mother,  a 
tall  woman,  of  fair  complexion  and  thin,  refined  face, 
with  wandering  eyes  and  a  forehead  rather  deeply  lined, 
stepped  forward  as  if  in  delight  at  the  unexpected  visit, 
and  took  Miss  Shepperson's  ill-gloved  hand  in  both  her 
own,  gazing  with  tender  interest  into  her  eyes. 

'  How  kind  of  you  to  have  taken  this  trouble  !  You 
guessed  that  I  really  wished  to  see  you.  I  should  have 
come  to  you,  but  just  at  present  I  find  it  so  difficult  to 
get  away  from  home.  I  am  housekeeper,  nursemaid, 
and  governess  all  in  one !  Some  women  would  find  it 
rather  a  strain,  but  the  dear  tots  are  so  good — so  good  ! 
Cissy,  you  remember  Miss  Shepperson  ?  Of  course  you 
do.  They  look  a  little  pale,  I  'm  afraid ;  don't  you 
think  so  ?  After  the  life  they  were  accustomed  to — but 
we  won't  talk  about  that.  Tots,  school-time  is  over  for 
this  morning.  You  can't  go  out,  my  poor  dears  ;  look  at 
the  horrid,  horrid  weather.  Go  and  sit  by  the  nursery 
fire,  and  sing  "  Rain,  rain,  go  away  !  " 

Miss  Shepperson  followed  the  children  with  her  look  as 


152  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

they  silently  left  the  room.  She  knew  not  how  to  enter 
upon  what  she  had  to  say.  To  talk  of  the  law  and  use 
threats  in  this  atmosphere  of  serene  domesticity  seemed 
impossibly  harsh.  But  the  necessity  of  broaching  the 
disagreeable  subject  was  spared  her. 

*  My  husband  and  I  were  talking  about  you  last  night,' 
began  Mrs.  Rymer,  as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed,  in  a 
tone  of  the  friendliest  confidence.      '  I  had  an  idea ;  it 
seems  to  me  so  good.      I  wonder  whether  it  will  to  you  ? 
You  told  me,  did  you  not,  that  you  live  in  lodgings,  and 
quite  alone?1 

*  Yes,'  replied   Miss  Shepperson,  struggling  to   com- 
mand her  nerves  and  betraying  uneasy  wonder. 

'  Is  it  by  choice  ? '  asked  the  soft-voiced  lady,  with 
sympathetic  bending  of  the  head.  '  Have  you  no 
relations  in  London  ?  I  can't  help  thinking  you  must 
feel  very  lonely.' 

It  was  not  difficult  to  lead  Miss  Shepperson  to  talk 
of  her  circumstances — a  natural  introduction  to  the 
announcement  which  she  was  still  resolved  to  make  with 
all  firmness.  She  narrated  in  outline  the  history  of  her 
family,  made  known  exactly  how  she  stood  in  pecuniary 
matters,  and  ended  by  saying — 

'  You  see,  Mrs.  Rymer,  that  I  have  to  live  as  carefully 
as  I  can.  This  house  is  really  all  I  have  to  depend  upon, 
and — and ' 

Again  she  was  spared  the  unpleasant  utterance.  With 
an  irresistible  smile,  and  laying  her  soft  hand  on  the 
visitor's  ill-fitting  glove,  Mrs.  Rymer  began  to  reveal  the 
happy  thought  which  had  occurred  to  her.  In  the 
house  there  was  a  spare  room ;  why  should  not  Miss 
Shepperson  come  and  live  here — live,  that  is  to  say,  as 
a  member  of  the  family?  Nothing  simpler  than  to 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  153 

arrange  the  details  of  such  a  plan,  which,  of  course,  must 
be  '  strictly  businesslike,1  though  carried  out  in  a  spirit 
of  mutual  goodwill.  A  certain  sum  of  money  was  due 
to  her  for  rent ;  suppose  this  were  repaid  in  the  form  of 
board  and  lodging,  which  might  be  reckoned  at — should 
one  say,  fifteen  shillings  a  week  ?  At  midsummer  next 
an  account  would  be  drawn  up, '  in  a  thoroughly  business- 
like way,'  and  whatever  then  remained  due  to  Miss 
Shepperson  would  be  paid  at  once  ;  after  which,  if  the 
arrangement  proved  agreeable  to  both  sides,  it  might  be 
continued,  cost  of  board  and  lodging  being  deducted 
from  the  rent,  and  the  remainder  paid  '  with  regularity ' 
every  quarter.  Miss  Shepperson  would  thus  have  a  home 
— a  real  home — with  all  family  comforts,  and  Mrs. 
Rymer,  who  was  too  much  occupied  with  house  and 
children  to  see  much  society,  would  have  the  advantage 
of  a  sympathetic  friend  under  her  own  roof.  The  good 
lady's  voice  trembled  with  joyous  eagerness  as  she 
unfolded  the  project,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  as  she 
waited  for  the  response. 

Miss  Shepperson  felt  such  astonishment  that  she  could 
only  reply  with  incoherencies.  An  idea  so  novel  and  so 
strange  threw  her  thoughts  into  disorder.  She  was 
alarmed  by  the  invitation  to  live  with  people  who  were 
socially  her  superiors.  On  the  other  hand,  the  proposal 
made  appeal  to  her  natural  inclination  for  domestic  life ; 
it  offered  the  possibility  of  occupation,  of  usefulness. 
Moreover,  from  the  pecuniary  point  of  view,  it  would  be 
so  very  advantageous. 

*  But,'  she  stammered  at  length,  when  Mrs.  Rymer 
had  repeated  the  suggestion  in  words  even  more  gracious 
and  alluring,  *  but  fifteen  shillings  is  so  very  little  for 
board  and  lodging 


154  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

'  Oh,  don't  let  that  trouble  you,  dear  Miss  Shepperson,1 
cried  the  other  gaily.  '  In  a  family,  so  little  difference 
is  made  by  an  extra  person.  I  assure  you  it  is  a  perfectly 
businesslike  arrangement ;  otherwise  my  husband,  who  is 
prudence  itself,  would  never  have  sanctioned  it.  As  you 
know,  we  are  suffering  a  temporary  embarrassment.  I 
wrote  to  you  yesterday  before  my  husband's  return  from 
business.  When  he  came  home,  I  learnt,  to  my  dismay, 
that  it  might  be  rather  more  than  a  month  before  he  was 
able  to  send  you  a  cheque.  I  said  :  "  Oh,  I  must  write 
again  to  Miss  Shepperson.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  mis- 
leading her."  Then,  as  we  talked,  that  idea  came  to  me. 
As  I  think  you  will  believe,  Miss  Shepperson,  I  am  not 
a  scheming  or  a  selfish  woman ;  never,  never  have  I 
wronged  any  one  in  my  life.  This  proposal,  I  cannot 
help  feeling,  is  as  much  for  your  benefit  as  for  ours. 
Doesn't  it  really  seem  so  to  you  ?  Suppose  you  come  up 
with  me  and  look  at  the  room.  It  is  not  in  perfect 
order,  but  you  will  see  whether  it  pleases  you. 

Curiosity  allying  itself  with  the  allurement  which  had 
begun  to  work  upon  •  her  feelings,  Miss  Shepperson 
timidly  rose  and  followed  her  smiling  guide  upstairs. 
The  little  spare  room  on  the  second  floor  was  furnished 
simply  enough,  but  made  such  a  contrast  with  the  bed- 
chamber in  the  Acton  lodging-house  that  the  visitor 
could  scarcely  repress  an  exclamation.  Mrs.  Rymer  was 
voluble  with  promise  of  added  comforts.  She  interested 
herself  in  Miss  Shepperson's  health,  and  learnt  with  the 
utmost  satisfaction  that  it  seldom  gave  trouble.  She 
inquired  as  to  Miss  Shepperson's  likings  in  the  matter 
of  diet,  and  strongly  approved  her  preference  for  a  plain, 
nutritive  regimen.  From  the  spare  room  the  visitor 
was  taken  into  all  the  others,  and  before  they  went 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  155 

downstairs  again  Mrs.  Rymer  had  begun  to  talk  as  though 
the  matter  were  decided. 

'  You  will  stay  and  have  lunch  with  me,'  she  said. 
*  Oh  yes,  indeed  you  will ;  I  can't  dream  of  your  going 
out  into  this  weather  till  after  lunch.  Suppose  we  have 
the  tots  into  the  drawing-room  again  ?  I  want  them 
to  make  friends  with  you  at  once.  I  know  you  love 
children. — Oh,  I  have  known  that  for  a  long  time  ! ' 

Miss  Shepperson  stayed  to  lunch.  She  stayed  to  tea. 
When  at  length  she  took  her  leave,  about  six  o'clock, 
the  arrangement  was  complete  in  every  detail.  On  this 
day  week  she  would  transfer  herself  to  the  Rymers1  house, 
and  enter  upon  her  new  life. 

She  arrived  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  was  received 
by  the  assembled  family  like  a  very  dear  friend  or 
relative.  Mr.  Rymer,  a  well-dressed  man,  polite,  good- 
natured,  with  a  frequent  falsetto  laugh,  talked  over  the 
teacups  in  the  pleasantest  way  imaginable,  not  only 
putting  Miss  Shepperson  at  ease,  but  making  her  feel  as 
if  her  position  as  a  member  of  the  household  were  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  His  mere  pronuncia- 
tion of  her  name  gave  it  a  dignity,  an  importance  quite 
new  to  Miss  Shepperson's  ears.  He  had  a  way  of  shaping 
his  remarks  so  as  to  make  it  appear  that  the  homely,  timid 
woman  was,  if  anything,  rather  the  superior  in  rank  and 
education,  and  that  their  simple  ways  might  now  and 
then  cause  her  amusement.  Even  the  children  seemed 
to  do  their  best  to  make  the  newcomer  feel  at  home. 
Cissy,  whose  age  was  nine,  assiduously  handed  toast  and 
cake  with  a  most  engaging  smile,  and  little  Minnie,  not 
quite  six,  deposited  her  kitten  in  Miss  Shepperson's  lap, 
saying  prettily,  '  You  may  stroke  it  whenever  you  like.' 

Miss  Shepperson,  to  be   sure,  had  personal   qualities 


156  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

which  could  not  but  appeal  to  people  of  discernment. 
Her  plain  features  expressed  a  simplicity  and  gentleness 
which  more  than  compensated  for  the  lack  of  conventional 
grace  in  her  manners  ;  she  spoke  softly  and  with  obvious 
frankness,  nor  was  there  much  fault  to  find  with  her 
phrasing  and  accent ;  dressed  a  little  more  elegantly,  she 
would  in  no  way  have  jarred  with  the  tone  of  average 
middle-class  society.  If  she  had  not  much  education, 
she  was  altogether  free  from  pretence,  and  the  possession 
of  property  (which  always  works  very  decidedly  for  good 
or  for  evil)  saved  her  from  that  excess  of  deference  which 
would  have  accentuated  her  social  shortcomings.  Un- 
distinguished as  she  might  seem  at  the  first  glance,  Miss 
Shepperson  could  not  altogether  be  slighted  by  any  one 
who  had  been  in  her  presence  for  a  few,  minutes.  And 
when,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  she  found  courage  to 
converse  more  freely,  giving  her  views,  for  instance,  on 
the  great  servant  question,  and  on  other  matters  of 
domestic  interest,  it  became  clear  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Rymer  that  their  landlady,  though  a  soft-hearted  and 
simple-minded  woman,  was  by  no  means  to  be  regarded 
as  a  person  of  no  account. 

The  servant  question  was  to  the  front  just  now,  as 
Mrs.  Rymer  explained  in  detail.  She,  *  of  course,'  kept 
two  domestics,  but  was  temporarily  making  shift  with 
only  one,  it  being  so  difficult  to  replace  the  cook,  who 
had  left  a  week  ago.  Did  Miss  Shepperson  know  of  a 
cook,  a  sensible,  trustworthy  woman  ?  For  the  present 
Mrs.  Rymer — she  confessed  it  with  a  pleasant  little 
laugh — had  to  give  an  eye  to  the  dinner  herself. 

'  I  only  hope  you  won't  make  yourself  ill,  dear,'  said 
Mr.  Rymer,  bending  towards  his  wife  with  a  look  of  well- 
bred  solicitude.  '  Miss  Shepperson,  I  beg  you  to  insist 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  157 

that  she  lies  down  a  little  every  afternoon.  She  has 
great  nervous  energy,  but  isn't  really  very  strong.  You 
can't  think  what  a  relief  it  will  be  to  me  all  day  to 
know  that  some  one  is  with  her.' 

On  Sunday  morning  all  went  to  church  together  ;  for, 
to  Mrs.  Rymer's  great  satisfaction,  Miss  Shepperson  was 
a  member  of  the  orthodox  community,  and  particular 
about  observances.  Meals  were  reduced  to  the  simplest 
terms  ;  a  restful  quiet  prevailed  in  the  little  house ;  in 
the  afternoon,  while  Mrs.  Rymer  reposed,  Miss  Shepper- 
sou  read  to  the  children.  She  it  was  who — the  servant 
being  out — prepared  tea.  After  tea,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Rymer,  with  many  apologies,  left  the  home  together  for 
a  couple  of  hours,  being  absolutely  obliged  to  pay  a  call 
at  some  distance,  and  Miss  Shepperson  again  took  care 
of  the  children  till  the  domestic  returned. 

After  breakfast  the  next  day — it  was  a  very  plain 
meal,  merely  a  rasher  and  dry  toast — the  lady  of 
the  house  chatted  with  her  friend  more  confiden- 
tially than  ever.  Their  servant,  she  said,  a  good  girl 
but  not  very  robust,  naturally  could  not  do  all  the  work 
of  the  house,  and,  by  way  of  helping,  Mrs.  Rymer  was 
accustomed  to  '  see  to '  her  own  bedroom. 

*  It 's  really  no  hardship,'  she  said,  in  her  graceful, 
sweet- tempered  way,  *  when  once  you  're  used  to  it ;  in 
fact,  I  think  the  exercise  is  good  for  my  health.  But,  of 
course,  I  couldn't  think  of  asking  you  to  do  the  same. 
No  doubt  you  will  like  to  have  a  breath  of  air,  as  the 
sky  seems  clearing.' 

What  could  Miss  Shepperson  do  but  protest  that  to 
put  her  own  room  in  order  was  such  a  trifling  matter 
that  they  need  not  speak  of  it  another  moment.  Mrs. 
Rymer  was  confused,  vexed,  and  wished  she  had  not 


158  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

said  a  word ;  but  the  other  made  a  joke  of  these 
scruples. 

*  When  do  the  children  go  out  ? '  asked  Miss  Shepper- 
son.  '  Do  you  take  them  yourself?' 

'  Oh,  always  !  almost  always  !  I  shall  go  out  with 
them  for  an  hour  at  eleven.  And  yet ' — she  checked 
herself,  with  a  look  of  worry — '  oh,  dear  me  !  I  must 
absolutely  go  shopping,  and  I  do  so  dislike  to  take  the 
tots  in  that  direction.  Never  mind ;  the  walk  must  be 
put  off  till  the  afternoon.  It  may  rain  ;  but ' 

Miss  Shepperson  straightway  offered  her  services  ;  she 
would  either  shop  or  go  out  with  the  children,  whichever 
Mrs.  Rymer  preferred.  The  lady  thought  she  had  better 
do  the  shopping — so  her  friend's  morning  was  pleasantly 
arranged.  In  a  day  or  two  things  got  into  a  happy 
routine.  Miss  Shepperson  practically  became  nursemaid, 
with  the  privilege  of  keeping  her  own  bedroom  in  order 
and  of  helping  in  a  good  many  little  ways  throughout 
the  domestic  day.  A  fortnight  elapsed,  and  Mrs.  Rymer 
was  still  unable  to  *  suit  herself '  with  a  cook,  though  she 
had  visited,  or  professed  to  visit,  many  registry-offices 
and  corresponded  with  many  friends.  A  week  after  that 
the  subject  of  the  cook  had  somehow  fallen  into  forget- 
fulness  ;  and,  indeed,  a  less  charitably  disposed  observer 
than  Miss  Shepperson  might  have  doubted  whether  Mrs. 
Rymer  had  ever  seriously  meant  to  engage  one  at  all. 
The  food  served  on  the  family  table  was  of  the  plainest, 
and  not  always  superabundant  in  quantity;  but  the 
table  itself  was  tastefully  ordered,  and,  indeed,  no  sort 
of  carelessness  appeared  in  any  detail  of  the  household 
life.  Mrs.  Rymer  was  always  busy,  and  without  fuss, 
without  irritation.  She  had  a  large  correspondence  ;  but 
it  was  not  often  that  people  called.  No  guest  was  ever 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  159 

invited  to  lunch  or  dinner.  All  this  while  the  master 
of  the  house  kept  regular  hours,  leaving  home  at  nine 
and  returning  at  seven  ;  if  he  went  out  after  dinner,  which 
happened  rarely,  he  was  always  back  by  eleven  o'clock.  No 
more  respectable  man  than  Mr.  Rymer ;  none  more  even- 
tempered,  more  easily  pleased,  more  consistently  polite 
and  amiable.  That  he  and  his  wife  were  very  fond  of 
each  other  appeared  in  all  their  talk  and  behaviour ; 
both  worshipped  the  children,  and,  in  spite  of  that, 
trained  them  with  a  considerable  measure  of  good  sense. 
In  the  evenings  Mr.  Rymer  sometimes  read  aloud,  or  he 
would  talk  instructively  of  the  affairs  of  the  day.  The 
more  Miss  Shepperson  saw  of  her  friends  the  more  she 
liked  them.  Never  had  she  been  the  subject  of  so  much 
kind  attention,  and  in  no  company  had  she  ever  felt  so 
happily  at  ease. 

Time  went  on,  and  it  was  near  midsummer.  Of  late 
Mrs.  Rymer  had  not  been  very  well,  and  once  or  twice 
Miss  Shepperson  fancied  that  her  eyes  showed  traces  of 
tears  ;  it  was  but  natural  that  the  guest,  often  pre- 
occupied with  the  thought  of  the  promised  settlement, 
should  feel  a  little  uneasy.  On  June  23  Mrs.  Rymer 
chose  a  suitable  moment,  and  with  her  most  confi- 
dential air,  invited  Miss  Shepperson  to  an  intimate  chat. 

*  I  want  to  explain  to  you,'  she  said,  rather  cheerfully 
than  otherwise, '  the  exact  state  of  our  affairs.  I  'm  sure 
it  will  interest  you.  We  have  become  such  good  friends 
— as  I  knew  we  should.  I  shall  be  much  easier  in  mind 
when  you  know  exactly  how  we  stand.1 

Thereupon  she  spoke  of  a  certain  kinsman  of  her 
husband,  an  old  and  infirm  man,  whose  decease  was  ex- 
pected, if  not  from  day  to  day,  at  all  events  from  week 
to  week.  The  event  would  have  great  importance  for 


160  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

them,  as  Mr.  Rymer  was  entitled  to  the  reversion  of  several 
thousands  of  pounds,  held  in  use  by  his  lingering 
relative. 

*  Now  let  me  ask  you  a  question,'  pursued  the  lady  in 
friendship's  undertone.  '  My  husband  is  quite  prepared 
to  settle  with  you  to-morrow.  He  wishes  to  do  so,  for 
he  feels  that  your  patience  has  been  most  exemplary. 
But,  as  we  spoke  of  it  last  night,  an  idea  came  to  me.  I 
can't  help  thinking  it  was  a  happy  idea,  but  I  wish  to 
know  how  it  strikes  you.  On  receiving  the  sum  due  to 
you,  you  will  no  doubt  place  it  in  a  bank,  or  in  some 
way  invest  it.  Suppose,  now,  you  leave  the  money  in 
Mr.  Rymer's  hands,  receiving  his  acknowledgment,  and 
allowing  him  to  pay  it,  with  four  per  cent,  interest,  when 
he  enters  into  possession  of  his  capital  ?  Mind,  I  only 
suggest  this  ;  not  for  a  moment  would  I  put  pressure  upon 
you.  If  you  have  need  of  the  money,  it  shall  be  paid  at 
once.  But  it  struck  me  that,  knowing  us  so  well  now,  you 
might  even  be  glad  of  such  an  investment  as  this.  The 
event  to  which  we  are  looking  forward  may  happen  very 
soon ;  but  it  may  be  delayed.  How  would  you  like  to 
leave  this  money,  and  the  sums  to  which  you  will  be- 
come entitled  under  our  arrangements,  from  quarter  to 
quarter,  to  increase  at  compound  interest  ?  Let  us  make 
a  little  calculation ' 

Miss  Shepperson  listened  nervously.  She  was  on  the 
point  of  saying  that,  on  the  whole,  she  preferred  im- 
mediate payment ;  but  while  she  struggled  with  her 
moral  weakness  Mrs.  Rymer,  anxiously  reading  her  face, 
struck  another  note. 

'  I  mustn't  disguise  from  you  that  the  money,  though 
such  a  small  sum,  would  be  useful  to  my  husband.  Poor 
fellow !  he  has  been  fighting  against  adversity  for  the 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  161 

last  year  or  two,  and  I  'm  sure  no  man  ever  struggled 
more  bravely.  You  would  never  think,  would  you  ?  that 
he  is  often  kept  awake  all  night  by  his  anxieties.  As  I 
tell  him,  he  need  not  really  be  anxious  at  all,  for  his 
troubles  will  so  soon  come  to  an  end.  But  there  is  no 
more  honourable  man  living,  and  he  worries  at  the 
thought  of  owing  money — you  can't  imagine  how  he 
worries  !  Then,  to  tell  you  a  great  secret ' 

A  change  came  upon  the  speaker's  face ;  her  voice 
softened  to  a  whisper  as  she  communicated  a  piece  of 
delicate  domestic  news. 

*  My  poor  husband,'  she  added, '  cannot  bear  to  think 
that,  when  it  happens,  we  may  be  in  really  straitened 
circumstances,  and  I  may  suffer  for  lack  of  comforts.  To 
tell  you  the  whole  truth,  dear  Miss  Shepperson,  I  have 
no  doubt  that,  if  you  like  my  idea,  he  would  at  once  put 
aside  that  money  to  be  ready  for  an  emergency.  So, 
you  see,  it  is  self-interest  in  me,  after  all.'  Her  smile 
was  very  sweet.  *  But  don't  judge  me  too  severely.  What 
I  propose  is,  as  you  see,  really  a  very  good  investment — 
is  it  not  ? ' 

Miss  Shepperson  found  it  impossible  to  speak  as  she 
wished,  and  before  the  conversation  came  to  an  'end  she 
saw  the  matter  entirely  from  her  friend's  point  of  view. 
She  had,  in  truth,  no  immediate  need  of  money,  and  the 
more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  content  she  was  to  do 
a  kindness  to  the  Rymers,  while  at  the  same  time  bene- 
fiting herself.  That  very  evening  Mr.  Rymer  prepared 
a  legal  document,  promising  to  pay  on  demand  the  sum 
which  became  due  to  Miss  Shepperson  to-morrow,  with 
compound  interest  at  the  rate  of  four  per  cent.  While 
signing  this,  he  gravely  expressed  his  conviction  that  before 
Michaelmas  the  time  for  payment  would  have  arrived, 

* 


162  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

'  But  if  it  were  next  week,'  he  added,  with  a  polite 
movement  towards  his  creditor,  '  I  should  be  not  a  bit 
the  less  grateful  to  our  most  kind  friend.1 

'  Oh,  but  it 's  purely  a  matter  of  business,'  said  Miss 
Shepperson,  who  was  always  abashed  by  such  expres- 
sions. 

'  To  be  sure,'  murmured  Mrs.  Rymer.  *  Let  us  look 
at  it  in  that  light.  But  it  shan't  prevent  us  from  calling 
Miss  Shepperson  our  dearest  friend.' 

The  homely  woman  blushed  and  felt  happy. 

Towards  the  end  of  autumn,  when  the  domestic  crisis 
was  very  near,  the  servant  declared  herself  ill,  and  at 
twenty-four  hours'  notice  quitted  the  house.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  had  received  no  wages  for  several  months  ; 
the  kindness  with  which  she  was  otherwise  treated  had 
kept  her  at  her  post  thus  long,  but  she  feared  the  in- 
crease of  work  impending,  and  preferred  to  go  off  unpaid. 
Now  for  the  first  time  did  Mrs,  Rymer's  nerves  give  way. 
Miss  Shepperson  found  her  sobbing  by  the  fireside,  the 
two  children  lamenting  at  such  an  unwonted  spectacle. 
Where  was  a  new  servant  to  be  found  ?  In  a  day  or  two 
the  monthly  nurse  would  be  here,  and  must,  of  course, 
be  waited  upon.  And  what  was  to  become  of  the 
children  ?  Miss  Shepperson,  moved  by  the  calamitous 
situation,  entreated  her  friend  to  leave  everything  to  her. 
She  would  find  a  servant  somehow,  and  meanwhile  would 
keep  the  house  going  with  her  own  hands  Mrs.  Rymer 
sobbed  that  she  was  ashamed  to  allow  such  a  thing ;  but 
the  other,  braced  by  a  crisis,  displayed  wonderful  activity 
and  resource.  For  two  days  Miss  Shepperson  did  all  the 
domestic  labour ;  then  a  maid,  of  the  species  known  as 
'  general,'  presented  herself,  and  none  too  soon,  for  that 
same  night  there  was  born  to  the  Rymers  a  third 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  163 

daughter.  But  troubles  were  by  no  means  over.  While 
Mrs.  Rymer  was  ill — very  ill  indeed — the  new  handmaid 
exhibited  a  character  so  eccentric  that,  after  nearly  set- 
ting fire  to  the  house  while  in  a  state  of  intoxication, 
she  had  to  be  got  rid  of  as  speedily  as  possible.  Miss 
Shepperson  resolved  that,  for  the  present,  there  should 
be  no  repetition  of  such  disagreeable  things.  She  quietly 
told  Mr.  Rymer  that  she  felt  quite  able  to  grapple  with 
the  situation  herself. 

*  Impossible  ! '  cried  the  master  of  the  house,  who,  after 
many  sleepless  nights  and  distracted  days,  had  a  haggard, 
unshorn  face,  scarcely  to  be  recognised.      *  I  cannot  per- 
mit it !     I  will  go  myself ' 

Then,  suddenly  turning  again  to  Miss  Shepperson,  he 
grasped  her  hand,  called  her  his  dear  friend  and 
benefactress,  and  with  breaking  voice  whispered  to 
her — 

*  I  will  help  you.    I  can  do  the  hard  work.    It 's  only 
for  a  day  or  two.' 

Late  that  evening  he  and  Miss  Shepperson  were  in 
the  kitchen  together :  the  one  was  washing  crockery, 
the  other,  who  had  been  filling  coal-scuttles,  stood  with 
dirty  hands  and  melancholy  visage,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor.  Their  looks  met ;  Mr.  Rymer  took  a  step  forward, 
smiling  with  confidential  sadness. 

'  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  speak  frankly,'  he  said,  in  a 
voice  as  polite  and  well-tuned  as  ever.  *  I  should  like 
to  make  known  to  you  the  exact  state  of  my  affairs.' 

'  Oh,  but  Mrs.  Rymer  has  told  me  everything,'  replied 
Miss  Shepperson,  as  she  dried  a  tea-cup. 

*No;  not  quite  everything,  I'm  afraid.'  He  had 
a  shovel  in  his  hand,  and  eyed  it  curiously.  *  She  has 
not  told  you  that  I  am  considerably  in  debt  to  various 


164  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

people,  and  that,  not  long  ago,  I  was  obliged  to  raise 
money  on  our  furniture.' 

Miss  Shepperson  laid  down  the  tea-cup  and  gazed 
anxiously  at  him,  whereupon  he  began  a  detailed  story 
of  his  misfortunes  in  business.  Mr.  Rymer  was  a  com- 
mission-agent— that  is  to  say,  he  was  everything  and 
nothing.  Struggle  with  pecuniary  embarrassment  was 
his  normal  condition,  but  only  during  the  last  twelve- 
month had  he  fallen  under  persistent  ill-luck  and  come 
to  all  but  the  very  end  of  his  resources.  It  would  still 
be  possible  for  him,  he  explained,  to  raise  money  on  the 
reversion  for  which  he  was  waiting,  but  of  such  a  step 
he  could  not  dream. 

'  It  would  be  dishonesty,  Miss  Shepperson,  and,  how- 
ever unfortunate,  I  have  never  yet  lost  my  honour. 
People  have  trusted  me,  knowing  that  I  am  an  honest 
man.  I  belong  to  a  good  family — as,  no  doubt,  Mrs. 
Rymer  has  told  you.  A  brother  of  mine  holds  a  re- 
spected position  in  Birmingham,  and,  if  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst,  he  will  find  me  employment.  But,  as  you 
can  well  understand,  I  shrink  from  that  extremity.  For 
one  thing,  I  am  in  debt  to  my  brother,  and  I  am 
resolved  to  pay  what  I  owe  him  before  asking  for  any 
more  assistance.  I  do  not  lose  courage.  You  know  the 
proverb :  "  Lose  heart,  lose  all.1"  I  am  blest  with  an 
admirable  wife,  who  stands  by  me  and  supports  me 
under  every  trial.  If  my  wife  were  to  die,  Miss  Shep- 
person  '  He  faltered  ;  his  eyes  glistened  in  the  gas- 
light. *  But  no,  I  won't  encourage  gloomy  fears.  She 
is  a  little  better  to-day,  they  tell  me.  We  shall  come 
out  of  our  troubles,  and  laugh  over  them  by  our  cheerful 
fireside — you  with  us — you,  our  dearest  and  staunchest 
friend,' 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  165 

1  Yes,  we  must  hope,'  said  Miss  Shepperson,  reassured 
once  more  as  to  her  own  interests  ;  for  a  moment  her  heart 
had  sunk  very  low  indeed.  '  We  are  all  doing  our 
best.' 

'  You  above  all,'  said  Mr.  Rymer,  pressing  her  hand 
with  his  coal-blackened  fingers.  *  I  felt  obliged  to  speak 
frankly,  because  you  must  have  thought  it  strange  that 
I  allowed  things  to  get  so  disorderly — our  domestic 
arrangements,  I  mean.  The  fact  is,  Miss  Shepperson,  I 
simply  don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  meet  the  expenses 
of  this  illness,  and  I  dread  the  thought  of  engaging 
servants.  I  cannot — I  will  not — raise  money  on  my 
expectations !  When  the  money  comes  to  me,  I  must  be 
able  to  pay  all  my  debts,  and  have  enough  left  to 
recommence  life  with.  Don't  you  approve  this  resolu- 
tion, Miss  Shepperson  ? ' 

*  Oh  yes,  indeed  I  do,'  replied  the  listener  heartily. 

*  And  yet,  of  course,'  he  pursued,  his  eyes  wandering, 
*  we  must  have  a  servant ' 

Miss  Shepperson  reflected,  she  too  with  an  uneasy 
look  on  her  face.  There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  by 
a  deep  sigh  from  Mr.  Rymer,  a  sigh  which  was  almost  a 
sob.  The  other  went  on  drying  her  plates  and  dishes, 
and  said  at  length  that  perhaps  they  might  manage  with 
quite  a  young  girl,  who  would  come  for  small  wages ; 
she  herself  was  willing  to  help  as  much  as  she  could 

*  Oh,    you    shame    me,    you    shame    me ! '    broke   in 
Mr.  Rymer,  laying  a  hand  on  his  forehead,  and  leaving 
a  black  mark  there.     'There  is  no  end  to  your  kind- 
ness ;    but  I  feel  it  as  a  disgrace  to  us — to  me — that 
you,  a  lady  of  property,  should  be  working  here  like  a 
servant.     It  is  monstrous — monstrous  ! ' 

At  the  flattering  description  of  herself  Miss  Shepper- 


166  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

son  smiled ;  her  soft  eyes  beamed  with  the  light  of  con- 
tentment. 

*  Don't  you  give  a  thought  to  that,  Mr.  Rymer,'  she 
exclaimed.  'Why,  it's  a  pleasure  to  me,  and  it  gives 
me  something  to  do — it 's  good  for  my  health.  Don't 
you  worry.  Think  about  your  business,  and  leave  me 
to  look  after  the  house.  It  '11  be  all  right.' 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Rymer  was  in  the  way  of  recovery, 
and  her  husband  went  to  the  City  as  usual.  A  servant 
had  been  engaged — a  girl  of  sixteen,  who  knew  as  much 
of  housework  as  London  girls  of  sixteen  generally  do  ;  at 
all  events,  she  could  carry  coals  and  wash  steps.  But 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  it  was  evident,  would  for  a 
long  time  be  unable  to  do  anything  whatever ;  the  real 
maid-of-all-work  was  Miss  Shepperson,  who  rose  every 
morning  at  six  o'clock,  and  toiled  in  one  way  or  another 
till  weary  bedtime.  If  she  left  the  house,  it  was  to  do 
needful  shopping  or  to  take  the  children  for  a  walk. 
Her  reward  was  the  admiration  and  gratitude  of  the 
family ;  even  little  Minnie  had  been  taught  to  say,  at 
frequent  intervals  :  '  I  love  Miss  Shepperson  because  she 
is  good  ! '  The  invalid  behaved  to  her  as  to  a  sister, 
and  kissed  her  cheek  morning  and  evening.  Miss  Shep- 
person's  name  being  Dora,  the  baby  was  to  be  so  called, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  godmother  drew  a 
sovereign  from  her  small  savings  to  buy  little  Miss  Dora 
a  christening  present.  It  would  not  have  been  easy  to 
find  a  house  in  London  in  which  there  reigned  so 
delightful  a  spirit  of  harmony  and  kindliness. 

'  I  was  so  glad,'  said  Mrs.  Rymer  one  day  to  her 
friend,  the  day  on  which  she  first  rose  from  bed,  *  that 
my  husband  took  you  into  his  confidence  about  our 
affairs.  Now  you  know  everything,  and  it  is  much 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  167 

better.  You  know  that  we  are  very  unlucky,  but  that 
no  one  can  breathe  a  word  against  our  honour.  This 
was  the  thought  that  held  me  up  through  my  illness. 
In  a  very  short  time  all  our  debts  will  be  paid — every 
farthing,  and  it  will  be  delightful  to  remember  how  we 
struggled,  and  what  we  endured,  to  keep  an  honest 
name.  Though,1  she  added  tenderly,  '  how  we  should 
have  done  without  «/OM,  I  really  cannot  imagine.  We 
might  have  sunk — gone  down  ! ' 

For  months  Mrs.  Rymer  led  the  life  of  a  feeble  con- 
valescent. She  ought  to  have  had  change  of  air,  but 
that  was  out  of  the  question,  for  Mr.  Rymer's  business 
was  as  unremunerative  as  ever,  and  with  difficulty  he 
provided  the  household  with  food.  One  gleam  of  light 
kept  up  the  courage  of  the  family :  the  aged  relative 
was  known  to  be  so  infirm  that  he  could  only  leave  the 
house  in  a  bath-chair ;  every  day  there  might  be  news 
even  yet  more  promising.  Meanwhile,  the  girl  of  sixteen 
exercised  her  incompetence  in  the  meaner  departments 
of  domestic  life,  and  Miss  Shepperson  did  all  the  work 
that  required  care  or  common-sense,  the  duties  of  nurse- 
maid alone  taking  a  great  deal  of  her  time.  On  the 
whole,  this  employment  seemed  to  suit  her ;  she  had  a 
look  of  improved  health,  enjoyed  more  equable  spirits, 
and  in  her  manner  showed  more  self-confidence.  Once 
a  month  she  succeeded  in  getting  a  few  hours1  holiday, 
and  paid  a  visit  to  one  or  the  other  of  her  sisters  ;  but 
to  neither  of  them  did  she  tell  the  truth  regarding  her 
position  in  the  house  at  Hammersmith.  Now  and  then, 
when  every  one  else  under  the  roof  was  asleep,  she  took 
from  a  locked  drawer  in  her  bedroom  a  little  account- 
book,  and  busied  herself  with  figures.  This  she  found 
an  enjoyable  moment ;  it  was  very  pleasant  indeed  to 


168  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

make  the  computation  of  what  the  Rymers  owed  to  her, 
a  daily-growing  debt  of  which  the  payment  could  not 
now  be  long  delayed.  She  did  not  feel  quite  sure  with 
regard  to  the  interest,  but  the  principal  of  the  debt  was 
very  easily  reckoned,  and  it  would  make  a  nice  little  sum 
to  put  by.  Certainly  Miss  Shepperson  was  not  unhappy. 

Mrs.  Rymer  was  just  able  to  resume  her  normal 
habits,  to  write  many  letters,  teach  her  children,  pay 
visits  in  distant  parts  of  London — the  care  of  the  baby 
being  still  chiefly  left  to  Miss  Shepperson — when,  on  a 
pleasant  day  of  spring,  a  little  before  lunch-time,  Mr. 
Rymer  rushed  into  the  house,  calling  in  an  agitated 
voice  his  wife's  name.  Miss  Shepperson  was  the  only 
person  at  home,  for  Mrs.  Rymer  had  gone  out  with  the 
children,  the  servant  accompanying  her  to  wheel  baby's 
perambulator ;  she  ran  up  from  the  kitchen,  aproned, 
with  sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbow,  and  met  the  excited 
man  as  he  descended  from  a  vain  search  in  the  bed- 
rooms. 

'  Has  it  happened  ? '  she  cried — for  it  seemed  to  her 
that  there  could  be  only  one  explanation  of  Mr.  Rymer's 
behaviour. 

'  Yes  !     He  died  this  morning — this  morning  ! ' 

They  clasped  hands  ;  then,  as  an  afterthought,  their 
eyes  fell,  and  they  stood  limply  embarrassed. 

*  It  seems  shocking  to  take  the  news  in  this  way,1 
murmured  Mr.  Rymer ;  '  but  the  relief ;  oh,  the  relief  ! 
And  then,  I  scarcely  knew  him ;  we  haven't  seen  each 
other  for  years.  I  can't  help  it !  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
thrown  off  a  load  of  tons  !  Where  is  Adelaide  ?  Which 
way  have  they  gone  ? ' 

He  rushed  out  again,  to  meet  his  wife.  For  several 
minutes  Miss  Shepperson  stood  motionless,  in  a  happy 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  169 

daze,  until  she  suddenly  remembered  that  chops  were  at 
the  kitchen  fire,  and  sped  downstairs. 

Throughout  that  day,  and,  indeed,  for  several  days  to 
come,  Mrs.  Rymer  behaved  very  properly  indeed  ;  her 
pleasant,  refined  face  wore  a  becoming  gravity,  and  when 
she  spoke  of  the  deceased  she  called  him  poor  Mr.  So- 
and-so.  She  did  not  attend  the  funeral,  for  baby 
happened  to  be  ailing,  but  Mr.  Rymer,  of  course,  went. 
He,  in  spite  of  conscientious  effort  to  imitate  his  wife's 
decorum,  frequently  betrayed  the  joy  which  was  in  his 
mind ;  Miss  Shepperson  heard  him  singing  as  he  got  up 
in  the  morning,  and  noticed  that  he  ate  with  unusual 
appetite.  The  house  brightened.  Before  the  end  of  a 
week  smiles  and  cheerful  remarks  ruled  in  the  family; 
sorrows  were  forgotten,  and  everybody  looked  forward 
to  the  great  day  of  settlement. 

It  did  not  come  quickly.  In  two  months'  time  Mr. 
Rymer  still  waited  upon  the  pleasure  of  the  executors. 
But  he  was  not  inactive.  His  brother  at  Birmingham 
had  suggested  *  an  opening '  in  that  city  (thus  did  Mrs. 
Rymer  phrase  it),  and  the  commission-agent  had  decided 
to  leave  London  as  soon  as  his  affairs  were  in  order. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  third  month  the  family  was 
suffering  from  hope  deferred.  Mr.  Rymer  had  once 
more  a  troubled  face,  and  his  wife  no  longer  talked  to 
Miss  Shepperson  in  happy  strain  of  her  projects  for  the 
future.  At  length  notice  arrived  that  the  executors 
were  prepared  to  settle  with  Mr.  Rymer;  yet,  in 
announcing  the  fact,  he  manifested  only  a  sober  con- 
tentment, while  Mrs.  Rymer  was  heard  to  sigh.  Miss 
Shepperson  noted  these  things,  and  wondered  a  little, 
but  Mrs.  Rymer's  smiling  assurance  that  now  at  last  all 
was  well  revived  her  cheerful  expectations. 


170  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

With  a  certain  solemnity  she  was  summoned,  a  day 
or  two  later,  to  a  morning  colloquy  in  the  drawing-room. 
Mr.  Rymer  sat  in  an  easy-chair,  holding  a  bundle  of 
papers ;  Mrs.  Rymer  sat  on  the  sofa,  the  dozing  baby  on 
her  lap ;  over  against  them  their  friend  took  her  seat. 
With  a  little  cough  and  a  rustle  of  his  papers,  the  polite 
man  began  to  speak  — 

*  Miss  Shepperson,  the  day  has  come  when  I  am  able 
to  discharge  my  debt  to  you.     You  will  not  misunder- 
stand that  expression — I  speak  of  my  debt  in  money. 
What    I   owe  to   you — what   we   all   owe   to  you — in 
another  and  a  higher  sense,  can  never  be  repaid.     That 
moral  debt  must  still  go  on,  and  be  acknowledged  by 
the  unfailing  gratitude  of  a  lifetime.1 

*  Of  a  lifetime,'  repeated  Mrs.  Rymer,  sweetly  murmur- 
ing, and  casting  towards  her  friend  an  eloquent  glance. 

4  Here,  however,1  resumed  her  husband,  '  is  the 
pecuniary  account.  Will  you  do  me  the  kindness,  Miss 
Shepperson,  to  glance  it  over  and  see  if  you  find  it 
correct  ? 1 

Miss  Shepperson  took  the  paper,  which  was  covered 
with  a  very  neat  array  of  figures.  It  was  the  same 
calculation  which  she  herself  had  so  often  made,  but 
with  interest  on  the  money  due  to  her  correctly  com- 
puted. The  weekly  sum  of  fifteen  shillings  for  board 
and  lodging  had  been  deducted,  throughout  the  whole 
time,  from  the  rent  due  to  her  as  landlady.  Mr.  Rymer 
stood  her  debtor  for  not  quite  thirty  pounds. 

'It's  quite  correct,'  said  Miss  Shepperson,  handing 
back  the  paper  with  a  pleased  smile. 

Mr.  Rymer  turned  to  his  wife. 

1  And  what  do  you  say,  dear  ?  Do  you  think  it 
correct  ? ' 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  171 

Mrs.  Rymer  shook  her  head. 

*  No,'  she  answered  gently,  '  indeed  I  do  not.' 

Miss  Shepperson  was  startled.  She  looked  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  saw  on  their  faces  only  the  kindliest 
expression. 

'  I  really  thought  it  came  to  about  that,'  fell  from  her 
lips.  '  I  couldn't  quite  reckon  the  interest ' 

1  Miss  Shepperson,'  said  Mr.  Rymer  impressively,  *  do 
you  really  think  that  we  should  allow  you  to  pay  us  for 
your  board  and  lodging — you,  our  valued  friend — you, 
who  have  toiled  for  us,  who  have  saved  us  from  endless 
trouble  and  embarrassment?  That  indeed  would  be  a 
little  too  shameless.  This  account  is  a  mere  joke — as  I 
hope  you  really  thought  it.  I  insist  on  giving  you  a 
cheque  for  the  total  amount  of  the  rent  due  to  you 
from  the  day  when  you  first  entered  this  house.' 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Rymer ! '  panted  the  good  woman,  turning 
pale  with  astonishment. 

*  Why,  of  course  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rymer.     *  Do  you 
think  it  would  be  possible  for  us  to  behave  in  any  other 
way  ?     Surely  you  know  us  too  well,  dear  Miss  Shep- 
person ! ' 

*  How  kind  you  are  ! '  faltered  their  friend,  unable  to 
decide  in  herself  whether  she  should  accept  this  gener- 
osity or  not — sorely  tempted  by  the  money,  yet  longing 
to  show  no  less  generous  a  spirit  on  her  own  side.     *  I 
really  don't  know ' 

Mr.  Rymer  imposed  silence  with  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
and  began  talking  in  a  slow,  grave  way. 

*  Miss  Shepperson,   to-day   I   may  account  myself  a 
happy  man.    Listen  to  a  very  singular  story.    You  know 
that  I  was  indebted  to  others  besides  you.     I  have  com- 
municated with  all  those  persons ;  I  have  drawn  up  a 


172  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

schedule  of  everything  I  owe ;  and — extraordinary 
coincidence  ! — the  sum-total  of  my  debts  is  exactly  that 
of  the  reversion  upon  which  I  have  entered,  minus  three 
pounds  fourteen  shillings.' 

f  Strange  ! '  murmured  Mrs.  Rymer,  as  if  delightedly. 

*  I  did  not  know,  Miss  Shepperson,  that  I  owed  so 
much.     I  had  forgotten  items.     And  suppose,  after  all, 
the   total   had   exceeded   my  resources !       That    indeed 
would  have  been  a  blow.     As  it  is,  I  am  a  happy  man  ; 
my    wife    is    happy.     We   pay  our  debts  to   the   last 
farthing,  and   we    begin   the   world   again — with   three 
pounds  to  the  good.      Our  furniture  must  go ;  I  cannot 
redeem  it ;  no  matter.      I  owe  nothing ;  our  honour  is 
saved  ! ' 

Miss  Shepperson  was  aghast. 

*  But,   Mrs.    Rymer,'  she  began,   '  this    is  dreadful ! 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 

'  Everything  is  arranged,  dear  friend,'  Mrs.  Rymer 
replied.  *  My  husband  has  a  little  post  in  Birmingham, 
which  will  bring  him  in  just  enough  to  support  us  in 
the  most  modest  lodgings.  We  cannot  hope  to  have  a 
house  of  our  own,  for  we  are  determined  never  again  to 
borrow  — and,  indeed,  I  do  not  know  who  would  lend  to 
us.  We  are  poor  people,  and  must  live  as  poor  people 
do.  Miss  Shepperson,  I  ask  one  favour  of  you.  Will 
you  permit  us  to  leave  your  house  without  the  customary 
notice  ?  We  should  feel  very  grateful.  To-day  I  pay 
Susan,  and  part  with  her ;  to-morrow  we  must  travel  to 
Birmingham.  The  furniture  will  be  removed  by  the 
people  who  take  possession  of  it ' 

Miss  Shepperson  was  listening  with  a  bewildered  look. 
She  saw  Mr.  Rymer  stand  up. 

'I  will  now,'  he  said,  'pay  you  the  rent  from  the  day ' 


A  CHARMING  FAMILY  173 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Rymer  ! '  cried  the  agitated  woman.  *  How 
can  I  take  it  ?  How  can  I  leave  you  penniless  ?  I 
should  feel  it  a  downright  robbery,  that  I  should  ! ' 

'Miss  Shepperson,'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rymer  in  soft 
reproach,  *  don't  you  understand  how  much  better  it  is 
to  pay  all  we  owe,  even  though  it  does  leave  us  penniless  ? 
Why,  even  darling  baby  ' — she  kissed  it — '  would  say  so 
if  she  could  speak,  poor  little  mite.  Of  course  you  will 
accept  the  money ;  I  insist  upon  it.  You  won't  forget 
us.  We  will  send  you  our  address,  and  you  shall  hear 
of  your  little  godchild ' 

Her  voice  broke  ;  she  sobbed,  and  rebuked  herself  for 
weakness,  and  sobbed  again.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Rymer 
stood  holding  out  banknotes  and  gold.  The  distracted 
Miss  Shepperson  made  a  wild  gesture. 

'How  can  I  take  it?  How  can  I?  I  should  be 
ashamed  the  longest  day  I  lived ! ' 

'  I  must  insist,"  said  Mr.  Rymer  firmly ;  and  his  wife, 
calm  again,  echoed  the  words.  In  that  moment  Miss 
Shepperson  clutched  at  the  notes  and  gold,  and,  with  a 
quick  step  forward,  took  hold  of  the  baby's  hand,  making 
the  little  fingers  close  upon  the  money. 

'  There  !     I  give  it  to  little  Dora — there  ! ' 

Mr.  Rymer  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion.  Mrs. 
Rymer  laid  baby  down  on  the  sofa,  and  clasped  Miss 
Shepperson  in  her  arms. 

A  few  days  later  the  house  at  Hammersmith  was 
vacant.  The  Rymers  wrote  from  Birmingham  that  they 
had  found  sufficient,  though  humble,  lodgings,  and  were 
looking  for  a  tiny  house,  which  they  would  furnish  very, 
very  simply  with  the  money  given  to  baby  by  their  ever 
dear  friend.  It  may  be  added  that  they  had  told  the 


174  A  CHARMING  FAMILY 

truth  regarding  their  position — save  as  to  one  detail  : 
Mr.  Rymer  thought  it  needless  to  acquaint  Miss  Shep- 
person  with  the  fact  that  his  brother,  a  creditor  for 
three  hundred  pounds,  had  generously  forgiven  the  debt. 
Miss  Shepperson,  lodging  in  a  little  bedroom,  with  an 
approving  conscience  to  keep  her  company,  hoped  that 
her  house  would  soon  be  let  again. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

FOR  a  score  of  years  the  Rocketts  had  kept  the  lodge 
of  Brent  Hall.  In  the  beginning  Rockett  was  head 
gardener ;  his  wife,  the  daughter  of  a  shopkeeper,  had 
never  known  domestic  service,  and  performed  her  duties 
at  the  Hall  gates  with  a  certain  modest  dignity  not 
displeasing  to  the  stately  persons  upon  whom  she 
depended.  During  the  lifetime  of  Sir  Henry  the  best 
possible  understanding  existed  between  Hall  and  lodge. 
Though  Rockett's  health  broke  down,  and  at  length 
he  could  work  hardly  at  all,  their  pleasant  home  was 
assured  to  the  family ;  and  at  Sir  Henry's  death  the 
nephew  who  succeeded  him  left  the  Rocketts  undis- 
turbed. But,  under  this  new  lordship,  things  were  not 
quite  as  they  had  been.  Sir  Edwin  Shale,  a  middle- 
aged  man,  had  in  his  youth  made  a  foolish  marriage  ; 
his  lady  ruled  him,  not  with  the  gentlest  of  tongues,  nor 
always  to  the  kindest  purpose,  and  their  daughter,  Hilda, 
asserted  her  rights  as  only  child  with  a  force  of  character 
which  Sir  Edwin  would  perhaps  have  more  sincerely 
admired  had  it  reminded  him  less  of  Lady  Shale. 

While  the  Hall,  in  Sir  Henry's  time,  remained  child- 
less, the  lodge  prided  itself  on  a  boy  and  two  girls. 
Young  Rockett,  something  of  a  scapegrace,  was  by  the 
baronet's  advice  sent  to  sea,  and  thenceforth  gave  his 
parents  no  trouble.  The  second  daughter,  Betsy,  grew 

176 


176         A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

up  to  be  her  mother's  help.  But  Betsy's  elder  sister 
showed  from  early  years  that  the  life  of  the  lodge  would 
afford  no  adequate  scope  for  her  ambitions.  May 
Rockett  had  good  looks  ;  what  was  more,  she  had  an 
intellect  which  sharpened  itself  on  everything  with  which 
it  came  in  contact.  The  village  school  could  never  have 
been  held  responsible  for  May  Rockett's  acquirements  and 
views  at  the  age  of  ten ;  nor  could  the  High  School  in 
the  neighbouring  town  altogether  account  for  her  mental 
development  at  seventeen.  Not  without  misgivings  had 
the  health-broken  gardener  and  his  wife  consented  to 
May's  pursuit  of  the  higher  learning  ;  but  Sir  Henry 
and  the  kind  old  Lady  Shale  seemed  to  think  it  the 
safer  course,  and  evidently  there  was  little  chance  of  the 
girl's  accepting  any  humble  kind  of  employment  :  in  one 
way  or  another  she  must  depend  for  a  livelihood  upon 
her  brains.  At  the  time  of  Sir  Edwin's  succession  Miss 
Rockett  had  already  obtained  a  place  as  governess,  giving 
her  parents  to  understand  that  this  was  only,  of  course, 
a  temporary  expedient — a  paving  of  the  way  to  some- 
thing vaguely,  but  superbly,  independent.  Nor  was 
promotion  long  in  coming.  At  two-and-twenty  May 
accepted  a  secretaryship  to  a  lady  with  a  mission — con- 
cerning the  rights  of  womanhood.  In  letters  to  her 
father  and  mother  she  spoke  much  of  the  importance  of 
her  work,  but  did  not  confess  how  very  modest  was  her 
salary.  A  couple  of  years  went  by  without  her  visiting 
the  old  home ;  then,  of  a  sudden,  she  made  known  her 
intention  of  coming  to  stay  at  the  lodge  '  for  a  week 
or  ten  days.'  She  explained  that  her  purpose  was  rest ; 
intellectual  strain  had  begun  rather  to  tell  upon  her, 
and  a  few  days  of  absolute  tranquillity,  such  as  she 
might  expect  under  the  elms  of  Brent  Hall,  would  do 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE         177 

her  all  the  good  in  the  world.  *  Of  course,'  she  added, 
'  it 's  unnecessary  to  say  anything  about  me  to  the  Shale 
people.  They  and  I  have  nothing  in  common,  and  it 
will  be  better  for  us  to  ignore  each  other's  existence.' 

These  characteristic  phrases  troubled  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Rockett.  That  the  family  at  the  Hall  should,  if  it 
seemed  good  to  them,  ignore  the  existence  of  May  was, 
in  the  Rocketts'  view,  reasonable  enough ;  but  for  May 
to  ignore  Sir  Edwin  and  Lady  Shale,  who  were  just  now 
in  residence  after  six  months  spent  abroad,  struck  them 
as  a  very  grave  impropriety.  Natural  respect  demanded 
that,  at  some  fitting  moment,  and  in  a  suitable  manner, 
their  daughter  should  present  herself  to  her  feudal 
superiors,  to  whom  she  was  assuredly  indebted,  though 
indirectly,  for  *  the  blessings  she  enjoyed.'  This  was 
Mrs.  Rockett's  phrase,  and  the  rheumatic,  wheezy  old 
gardener  uttered  the  same  opinion  in  less  conventional 
language.  They  had  no  affection  for  Sir  Edwin  or  his 
lady,  and  Miss  Hilda  they  decidedly  disliked  ;  their 
treatment  at  the  hands  of  these  new  people  contrasted 
unpleasantly  enough  with  the  memory  of  old  times  ;  but 
a  spirit  of  loyal  subordination  ruled  their  blood,  and,  to 
Sir  Edwin  at  all  events,  they  felt  gratitude  for  their 
retention  at  the  lodge.  Mrs.  Rockett  was  a  healthy  and 
capable  woman  of  not  more  than  fifty,  but  no  less  than 
her  invalid  husband  would  she  have  dreaded  the  thought 
of  turning  her  back  on  Brent  Hall.  Rockett  had  often 
consoled  himself  with  the  thought  that  hsre  he  should 
die,  here  amid  the  fine  old  trees  that  he  loved,  in  the 
ivy-covered  house  which  was  his  only  idea  of  home. 
And  was  it  not  a  reasonable  hope  that  Betsy,  good 
steady  girl,  should  some  day  marry  the  promising  young 
gardener  whom  Sir  Edwin  had  recently  taken  into  his 

M 


178        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

service,  and  so  re-establish  the  old  order  of  things  at 
the  lodge  ? 

'  I  half  wish  May  wasn't  coming,'  said  Mrs.  Rockett, 
after  long  and  anxious  thought.  *  Last  time  she  was 
here  she  quite  upset  me  with  her  strange  talk.1 

'  She 's  a  funny  girl,  and  that 's  the  truth,'  muttered 
Rockett  from  his  old  leather  chair,  full  in  the  sunshine 
of  the  kitchen  window.  They  had  a  nice  little  sitting- 
room  ;  but  this,  of  course,  was  only  used  on  Sunday, 
and  no  particular  idea  of  comfort  attached  to  it. 
May,  to  be  sure,  had  always  used  the  sitting-room. 
It  was  one  of  the  habits  which  emphasised  most 
strongly  the  moral  distance  between  her  and  her 
parents. 

The  subject  being  full  of  perplexity,  they  put  it  aside, 
and  with  very  mixed  feelings  awaited  their  elder 
daughter's  arrival.  Two  days  later  a  cab  deposited  at 
the  lodge  Miss  May,  and  her  dress-basket,  and  her  travel- 
ling-bag, and  her  holdall,  together  with  certain  loose 
periodicals  and  a  volume  or  two  bearing  the  yellow  label 
of  Mudie.  The  young  lady  was  well  dressed  in  a  severely 
practical  way ;  nothing  unduly  feminine  marked  her 
appearance,  and  in  the  matter  of  collar  and  necktie  she 
inclined  to  the  example  of  the  other  sex ;  for  all  that, 
her  soft  complexion  and  bright  eyes,  her  well-turned 
figure  and  light,  quick  movements,  had  a  picturesque 
value  which  Miss  May  certainly  did  not  ignore.  She 
manifested  no  excess  of  feeling  when  her  mother  and 
sister  came  forth  to  welcome  her  ;  a  nod,  a  smile,  an 
offer  of  her  cheek,  and  the  pleasant  exclamation,  '  Well, 
good  people  ! '  carried  her  through  this  little  scene  with 
becoming  dignity. 

'  You  will  bring  these  things  inside,  please,'  she  said 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE        179 

to  the  driver,  in  her  agreeable  head- voice,  with  the  tone 
and  gesture  of  one  who  habitually  gives  orders. 

Her  father,  bent  with  rheumatism,  stood  awaiting  her 
just  within.  She  grasped  his  hand  cordially,  and  cried 
on  a  cheery  note,  *  Well,  father,  how  are  you  getting 
on  ?  No  worse  than  usual,  I  hope  ?'  Then  she  added, 
regarding  him  with  her  head  slightly  aside,  '  We  must 
have  a  talk  about  your  case.  I  Ve  been  going  in  a  little 
for  medicine  lately.  No  doubt  your  country  medico  is  a 
duffer.  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  make  yourself  comfort- 
able. I  don't  want  to  disturb  any  one.  About  teatime, 
isn't  it,  mother  ?  Tea  very  weak  for  me,  please,  and  a 
slice  of  lemon  with  it,  if  you  have  such  a  thing,  and  just 
a  mouthful  of  dry  toast.1 

So  unwilling  was  May  to  disturb  the  habits  of  the 
family  that,  half  an  hour  after  her  arrival,  the  homely 
three  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  nervous  agitation,  and 
could  neither  say  nor  do  anything  natural  to  them.  Of 
a  sudden  there  sounded  a  sharp  rapping  at  the  window. 
Mrs.  Rockett  and  Betsy  started  up,  and  Betsy  ran  to  the 
door.  In  a  moment  or  two  she  came  back  with  glowing 
cheeks. 

'  I  'm  sure  I  never  heard  the  bell ! '  she  exclaimed 
with  compunction.  '  Miss  Shale  had  to  get  off  her 
bicycle ! ' 

'  Was  it  she  who  hammered  at  the  window  ? '  asked 
May  coldly. 

*  Yes — and  she  was  that  annoyed.' 

*  It  will  do  her  good.     A  little  anger  now  and  then 
is  excellent  for  the  health.'     And  Miss  Rockett  sipped 
her    lemon  -  tinctured    tea    with    a   smile    of  ineffable 
contempt. 

The  others  went   to  bed   at   ten  o'clock,  but  May, 


180        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

having  made  herself  at  ease  in  the  sitting-room,  sat  there 
reading  until  after  twelve.  Nevertheless,  she  was  up 
very  early  next  morning,  and,  before  going  out  for  a 
sharp  little  walk  (in  a  heavy  shower),  she  gave  precise 
directions  about  her  breakfast.  She  wanted  only  the 
simplest  things,  prepared  in  the  simplest  way,  but  the 
tone  of  her  instructions  vexed  and  perturbed  Mrs. 
Rockett  sorely.  After  breakfast  the  young  lady  made  a 
searching  inquiry  into  the  state  of  her  father's  health, 
and  diagnosed  his  ailments  in  such  learned  words  that 
the  old  gardener  began  to  feel  worse  than  he  had  done 
for  many  a  year.  May  then  occupied  herself  with 
correspondence,  and  before  midday  sent  her  sister  out 
to  post  nine  letters. 

'But  I  thought  you  were  going  to  rest  yourself  ?' 
said  her  mother,  in  an  irritable  voice  quite  unusual  with 
her. 

*  Why,  so  I  am  resting  ! '  May  exclaimed.  '  If  you 
saw  my  ordinary  morning's  work  !  I  suppose  you  have 
a  London  newspaper  ?  No  ?  How  do  you  live  without 
it  ?  I  must  run  into  the  town  for  one  this  afternoon.' 

The  town  was  three  miles  away,  but  could  be  reached 
by  train  from  the  village  station.  On  reflection,  Miss 
Rockett  announced  that  she  would  use  this  opportunity 
for  calling  on  a  lady  whose  acquaintance  she  desired  to 
make,  one  Mrs.  Lindley,  who  in  social  position  stood 
on  an  equality  with  the  family  at  the  Hall,  and  was 
often  seen  there.  On  her  mother's  expressing  surprise, 
May  smiled  indulgently. 

'  Why  shouldn't  I  know  Mrs.  Lindley  ?  I  have  heard 
she 's  interested  in  a  movement  which  occupies  me  a  good 
deal  just  now.  I  know  she  will  be  delighted  to  see  me. 
[  can  give  her  a  good  deal  of  first-hand  information,  for 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE         181 

which  she  will  be  grateful.  You  do  amuse  me,  mother, 
she  added  in  her  blandest  tone.  *  When  will  you  come 
to  understand  what  my  position  is  ?  ' 

The  Rocketts  had  put  aside  all  thoughts  of  what  they 
esteemed  May's  duty  towards  the  Hall ;  they  earnestly 
hoped  that  her  stay  with  them  might  pass  unobserved 
by  Lady  and  Miss  Shale,  whom,  they  felt  sure,  it  would 
be  positively  dangerous  for  the  girl  to  meet.  Mrs. 
Rockett  had  not  slept  for  anxiety  on  this  score.  The 
father  was  also  a  good  deal  troubled  ;  but  his  wonder  at 
May's  bearing  and  talk  had,  on  the  whole,  an  agreeable 
preponderance  over  the  uneasy  feeling.  He  and  Betsy 
shared  a  secret  admiration  for  the  brilliant  qualities 
which  were  flashed  before  their  eyes ;  they  privately 
agreed  that  May  was  more  of  a  real  lady  than  either  the 
baronet's  hard-tongued  wife  or  the  disdainful  Hilda  Shale. 

So  Miss  Rockett  took  the  early  afternoon  train,  and 
found  her  way  to  Mrs.  Lindley's,  where  she  sent  in  her 
card.  At  once  admitted  to  the  drawing-room,  she  gave 
a  rapid  account  of  herself,  naming  persons  whose  ac- 
quaintance sufficiently  recommended  her.  Mrs.  Lindley 
was  a  good-humoured,  chatty  woman,  who  had  a  lively 
interest  in  everything  *  progressive ' ;  a  new  religion 
or  a  new  cycling-costume  stirred  her  to  just  the  same 
kind  of  happy  excitement ;  she  had  no  prejudices,  but 
a  decided  preference  for  the  society  of  healthy,  high- 
spirited,  well-to-do  people.  Miss  Rockett's  talk  was 
exactly  what  she  liked,  for  it  glanced  at  innumerable 
topics  of  the  '  advanced '  sort,  was  much  concerned 
with  personalities,  and  avoided  all  tiresome  precision 
of  argument. 

*  Are  you  making  a  stay  here  ?  '  asked  the  hostess. 

*  Oh  !  I  am  with  my  people  in  the  country — not  far 


182        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

off,'  May  answered  in  an  offhand  way.  *  Only  for  a  day 
or  two.' 

Other  callers  were  admitted,  but  Miss  Rockett  kept 
the  lead  in  talk  ;  she  glowed  with  self-satisfaction,  feeling 
that  she  was  really  showing  to  great  advantage,  and  that 
everybody  admired  her.  When  the  door  again  opened 
the  name  announced  was  '  Miss  Shale.1  Stopping  in  the 
middle  of  a  swift  sentence,  May  looked  at  the  new- 
comer, and  saw  that  it  was  indeed  Hilda  Shale,  of  Brent 
Hall ;  but  this  did  not  disconcert  her.  Without  lower- 
ing her  voice  she  finished  what  she  was  saying,  and 
ended  in  a  mirthful  key.  The  baronet's  daughter  had 
come  into  town  on  her  bicycle,  as  was  declared  by  the 
short  skirt,  easy  jacket,  and  brown  shoes,  which  well  dis- 
played her  athletic  person.  She  was  a  tall,  strongly 
built  girl  of  six-and-twenty,  with  a  face  of  hard  comeli- 
ness and  magnificent  tawny  hair.  All  her  movements 
suggested  vigour ;  she  shook  hands  with  a  downward 
jerk,  moved  about  the  room  with  something  of  a  stride 
and,  in  sitting  down,  crossed  her  legs  abruptly. 

From  the  first  her  look  had  turned  with  surprise  to 
Miss  Rockett.  When,  after  a  minute  or  two,  the 
hostess  presented  that  young  lady  to  her,  Miss  Shale 
raised  her  eyebrows  a  little,  smiled  in  another  direction, 
and  gave  a  just  perceptible  nod.  May's  behaviour  was 
as  nearly  as  possible  the  same. 

'  Do  you  cycle,  Miss  Rockett  ?  '  asked  Mrs.  Lindley. 

'  No,  I  don't.  The  fact  is,  I  have  never  found  time 
to  learn.' 

A  lady  remarked  that  nowadays  there  was  a  certain 
distinction  in  not  cycling ;  whereupon  Miss  Shale's 
abrupt  and  rather  metallic  voice  sounded  what  was 
meant  for  gentle  irony. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE         183 

<  It 's  a  pity  the  machines  can't  be  sold  cheaper.  A 
great  many  people  who  would  like  to  cycle  don't  feel 
able  to  afford  it,  you  know.  One  often  hears  of  such 
cases  out  in  the  country,  and  it  seems  awfully  hard  lines, 
doesn't  it  ? ' 

Miss  Rockett  felt  a  warmth  ascending  to  her  ears, 
and  made  a  violent  effort  to  look  unconcerned.  She 
wished  to  say  something,  but  could  not  find  the  right 
words,  and  did  not  feel  altogether  sure  of  her  voice. 
The  hostess,  who  made  no  personal  application  of  Miss 
Shale's  remark,  began  to  discuss  the  prices  of  bicycles, 
and  others  chimed  in.  May  fretted  under  this  turn 
of  the  conversation.  Seeing  that  it  was  not  likely  to 
revert  to  subjects  in  which  she  could  shine,  she  rose  and 
offered  to  take  leave. 

*  Must  you  really  go  ? '  fell  with  conventional  regret 
from  the  hostess's  lips. 

'  I  'm  afraid  I  must,'  Miss  Rockett  replied,  bracing 
herself  under  the  converging  eyes  and  feeling  not  quite 
equal  to  the  occasion.  '  My  time  is  so  short,  and  there 
are  so  many  people  I  wish  to  see.' 

As  she  left  the  house,  anger  burned  in  her.  It  was 
certain  that  Hilda  Shale  would  make  known  her  circum- 
stances. She  had  fancied  this  revelation  a  matter  of 
indifference ;  but,  after  all,  the  thought  stung  her  intoler- 
ably. The  insolence  of  the  creature,  with  her  hint  about 
the  prohibitive  cost  of  bicycles  !  All  the  harder  to  bear 
because  hitting  the  truth.  May  would  have  long  ago 
bought  a  bicycle  had  she  been  able  to  afford  it.  Stray- 
ing about  the  main  stieets  of  the  town,  she  looked 
flushed  and  wrathful,  and  could  think  of  nothing  but 
her  humiliation. 

To  make  things  worse,  she  lost  count  of  time,  and 


184.        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

presently  found  that  she  had  missed  the  only  train  by 
which  she  could  return  home.  A  cab  would  be  too 
much  of  an  expense ;  she  had  no  choice  but  to  walk  the 
three  or  four  miles.  The  evening  was  close  ;  walking 
rapidly,  and  with  the  accompaniment  of  vexatious 
thoughts,  she  reached  the  gates  of  the  Hall  tired, 
perspiring,  irritated.  Just  as  her  hand  was  on  the 
gate  a  bicycle-bell  trilled  vigorously  behind  her,  and, 
from  a  distance  of  twenty  yards,  a  voice  cried  impera- 
tively— 

*  Open  the  gate,  please  ! ' 

Miss  Rockett  looked  round,  and  saw  Hilda  Shale 
slowly  wheeling  forward,  in  expectation  that  way  would 
be  made  for  her.  Deliberately  May  passed  through  the 
side  entrance,  and  let  the  little  gate  fall  to. 

Miss  Shale  dismounted,  admitted  herself,  and  spoke 
to  May  (now  at  the  lodge  door)  with  angry  emphasis. 

*  Didn't  you  hear  me  ask  you  to  open  ? ' 

'  I  couldn't  imagine  you  were  speaking  to  me,"1 
answered  Miss  Rockett,  with  brisk  dignity.  '  I  supposed 
some  servant  of  yours  was  in  sight.' 

A  peculiar  smile  distorted  Miss  Shale's  full  red  lips. 
Without  another  word  she  mounted  her  machine  and 
rode  away  up  the  elm  avenue. 

Now  Mrs.  Rockett  had  seen  this  encounter,  and  heard 
the  words  exchanged  :  she  was  lost  in  consternation. 

*  What   do  you  mean  by  behaving  like  that,   May  ? 
Why,  I  was  running  out  myself  to  open,  and  then  I  saw 
you  were  there,  and,  of  course,  I  thought  you  'd  do  it. 
There 's  the  second  time  in  two  days  Miss  Shale  has  had 
to  complain  about  us.      How  could  you  forget  yourself, 
to   behave  and  speak  like  that !     Why,  you  must  be 
crazy,  my  girl  !  * 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE        185 

*  I  don't  seem  to  get  on  very  well  here,  mother,1  was 
May's  reply.     *  The  fact  is,  I  'm  in  a  false  position.     I 
shall  go  to-morrow   morning,  and  there  won't  be  any 
more  trouble.1 

Thus  spoke  Miss  Rockett,  as  one  who  shakes  off  a 
petty  annoyance — she  knew  not  that  the  serious  trouble 
was  just  beginning.  A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Rockett 
went  up  to  the  Hall,  bent  on  humbly  apologising  for  her 
daughter's  impertinence.  After  being  kept  waiting  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  she  was  admitted  to  the  presence  of 
the  housekeeper,  who  had  a  rather  grave  announcement 
to  make. 

*  Mrs.  Rockett,  I  'm  sorry  to  tell  you  that  you  will 
have  to  leave  the  lodge.    My  lady  allows  you  two  months, 
though,  as  your  wages  have  always  been  paid  monthly, 
only  a  month's  notice  is  really  called  for.    I  believe  some 
allowance  will  be  made  you,  but  you  will  hear  about  that. 
The  lodge  must  be  ready  for  its  new  occupants  on  the 
last  day  of  October.1 

The  poor  woman  all  but  sank.  She  had  no  voice  for 
protest  or  entreaty — a  sob  choked  her ;  and  blindly  she 
made  her  way  to  the  door  of  the  room,  then  to  the  exit 
from  the  Hall. 

*  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ? 1  cried  May,  hear- 
ing from  the  sitting-room,  whither  she  had  retired,  a 
clamour  of  distressful  tongues. 

She  came  into  the  kitchen,  and  learnt  what  had 
happened. 

*  And  now  I  hope  you  're   satisfied  ! '  exclaimed  her 
mother,  with  tearful  wrath.     c  You  Ve  got  us  turned  out 
of  our  home — you  've  lost  us  the  best  place  a  family  ever 
had — and  I  hope  it 's  a  satisfaction  to  your  conceited, 
overbearing  mind  !     If  you  'd  tried  for  it  you  couldn't 


186        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

have  gone  to  work  better.  And  much  you  care  !  We  're 
below  you,  we  are  ;  we  're  like  dirt  under  your  feet  ! 
And  your  father  '11  go  and  end  his  life  who  knows  where, 
miserable  as  miserable  can  be ;  and  your  sister  '11  have 
to  go  into  service ;  and  as  for  me ' 

*  Listen,  mother  ! '  shouted  the  girl,  her  eyes  flashing 
and  every  nerve  of  her  body  strung.     '  If  the  Shales  are 
such   contemptible   wretches  as   to   turn    you  out  just 
because  they're  offended  with  me,  I  should  have  thought 
you  'd  have  spirit  enough  to  tell  them  what  you  think  of 
such  behaviour,  and  be  glad  never  more  to  serve  such 
brutes  !     Father,  what  do  you  say  ?     I  '11  tell  you  how 
it  was.' 

She  narrated  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  amid  sobs 
and  ejaculations  from  her  mother  and  Betsy.  Rockett, 
who  was  just  now  in  anguish  of  lumbago,  tried  to 
straighten  himself  in  his  chair  before  replying,  but  sank 
helplessly  together  with  a  groan. 

'  You  can't  help  yourself,  May,'  he  said  at  length.  ' It's 
your  nature,  my  girl.  Don't  worry.  I  '11  see  Sir  Edwin, 
and  perhaps  he  '11  listen  to  me.  It 's  the  women  who 
make  all  the  mischief.  I  must  try  to  see  Sir  Edwin ' 

A  pang  across  the  loins  made  him  end  abruptly, 
groaning,  moaning,  muttering.  Before  the  renewed 
attack  of  her  mother  May  retreated  into  the  sitting- 
room,  and  there  passed  an  hour  wretchedly  enough.  A 
knock  at  the  door  without  words  called  her  to  supper, 
but  she  had  no  appetite,  and  would  not  join  the  family 
circle.  Presently  the  door  opened,  and  her  father 
looked  in. 

*  Don't  worry,  my  girl,'  he  whispered.     '  I  '11  see  Sir 
Edwin  in  the  morning.' 

May  uttered  no  reply.     Vaguely  repenting  what  she 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE        187 

had  done,  she  at  the  same  time  rejoiced  in  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  passage  of  arms  with  Miss  Shale,  and  was 
inclined  to  despise  her  family  for  their  pusillanimous 
attitude.  It  seemed  to  her  very  improbable  that  the 
expulsion  would  really  be  carried  out.  Lady  Shale  and 
Hilda  meant,  no  doubt,  to  give  the  Rocketts  a  good 
fright,  and  then  contemptuously  pardon  them.  She,  in 
any  case,  would  return  to  London  without  delay,  and 
make  no  more  trouble.  A  pity  she  had  come  to  the 
lodge  at  all  ;  it  was  no  place  for  one  of  her  spirit  and 
her  attainments. 

In  the  morning  she  packed.  The  train  which  was  to 
take  her  back  to  town  left  at  half-past  ten,  and  after 
breakfast  she  walked  into  the  village  to  order  a  cab.  Her 
mother  would  scarcely  speak  to  her ;  Betsy  was  continually 
in  reproachful  tears.  On  coming  back  to  the  lodge  she 
saw  her  father  hobbling  down  the  avenue,  and  walked 
towards  him  to  ask  the  result  of  his  supplication. 
Rockett  had  seen  Sir  Edwin,  but  only  to  hear  his 
sentence  of  exile  confirmed.  The  baronet  said  he  was 
sorry,  but  could  not  interfere ;  the  matter  lay  in  Lady 
Shale's  hands,  and  Lady  Shale  absolutely  refused  to 
hear  any  excuses  or  apologies  for  the  insult  which  had 
been  offered  her  daughter. 

'  It 's  all  up  with  us,1  said  the  old  gardener,  who  was 
pale  and  trembling  after  his  great  effort.  '  We  must 
go.  But  don't  worry,  my  girl,  don't  worry.1 

Then  fright  took  hold  upon  May  Rockett.  She  felt 
for  the  first  time  what  she  had  done.  Her  heart 
fluttered  in  an  anguish  of  self-reproach,  and  her  eyes 
strayed  as  if  seeking  help.  A  minute's  hesitation,  then, 
with  all  the  speed  she  could  make,  she  set  off  up  the 
avenue  towards  the  Hall. 


188        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

Presenting  herself  at  the  servants1  entrance,  she 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  see  the  housekeeper.  Of  course 
her  story  was  known  to  all  the  domestics,  half  a  dozen 
of  whom  quickly  collected  to  stare  at  her,  with  more  or 
less  malicious  smiles.  It  was  a  bitter  moment  for  Miss 
Rockett,  but  she  subdued  herself,  and  at  length  obtained 
the  interview  she  sought.  With  a  cold  air  of  superiority 
and  of  disapproval  the  housekeeper  listened  to  her  quick, 
broken  sentences.  Would  it  be  possible,  May  asked,  for 
her  to  see  Lady  Shale  ?  She  desired  to — to  apologise 
for — for  rudeness  of  which  she  had  been  guilty,  rude- 
ness in  which  her  family  had  no  part,  which  they 
utterly  deplored,  but  for  which  they  were  to  suffer 
severely. 

'  If  you  could  help  me,  ma'am,  I  should  be  very 
grateful — indeed  I  should ' 

Her  voice  all  but  broke  into  a  sob.  That  '  ma'am ' 
cost  her  a  terrible  effort ;  the  sound  of  it  seemed  to 
smack  her  on  the  ears. 

'If  you  will  go  into  the  servants'  hall  and  wait,'  the 
housekeeper  deigned  to  say,  after  reflecting,  '  I  '11  see 
what  can  be  done.' 

And  Miss  Rockett  submitted.  In  the  servants'  hall 
she  sat  for  a  long,  long  time,  observed,  but  never 
addressed.  The  hour  of  her  train  went  by.  More  than 
once  she  was  on  the  point  of  rising  and  fleeing ;  more 
than  once  her  smouldering  wrath  all  but  broke  into 
flame.  But  she  thought  of  her  father's  pale,  pain- 
stricken  face,  and  sat  on. 

At  something  past  eleven  o'clock  a  footman  approached 
her,  and  said  curtly,  '  You  are  to  go  up  to  my  lady ; 
follow  me.'  May  followed,  shaking  with  weakness  and 
apprehension,  burning  at  the  same  time  with  pride  all 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE         189 

but  in  revolt.  Conscious  of  nothing  on  the  way,  she 
found  herself  in  a  large  room,  where  sat  the  two  ladies, 
who  for  some  moments  spoke  together  about  a  topic  of 
the  day  placidly.  Then  the  elder  seemed  to  become 
aware  of  the  girl  who  stood  before  her. 

*  You  are  Rockett's  elder  daughter?' 

Oh,  the  metallic  voice  of  Lady  Shale  !  How  gratified 
she  would  have  been  could  she  have  known  how  it 
bruised  the  girl's  pride  ! 

*  Yes,  my  lady ' 

'  And  why  do  you  want  to  see  me  ? ' 

'  I  wish  to  apologise — most  sincerely — to  your  lady- 
ship— for  my  behaviour  of  last  evening ' 

'  Oh,  indeed  ! '  the  listener  interrupted  contemptu- 
ously. *  I  am  glad  you  have  come  to  your  senses.  But 
your  apology  must  be  offered  to  Miss  Shale — if  my 
daughter  cares  to  listen  to  it.' 

May  had  foreseen  this.  It  was  the  bitterest  moment 
of  her  ordeal.  Flushing  scarlet,  she  turned  towards  the 
younger  woman. 

'Miss  Shale,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  what  I  said 
yesterday  —  I  beg  you  to  forgive  my  rudeness  —  my 
impertinence ' 

Her  voice  would  go  no  further ;  there  came  a  choking 
sound.  Miss  Shale  allowed  her  eyes  to  rest  triumphantly 
for  an  instant  on  the  troubled  face  and  figure,  then 
remarked  to  her  mother — 

*  It 's  really  nothing  to  me,  as  I  told  you.     I  suppose 
this  person  may  leave  the  room  now  ?' 

It  was  fated  that  May  Rockett  should  go  through 
with  her  purpose  and  gain  her  end.  But  fate  alone 
(which  meant  in  this  case  the  subtlest  preponderance  of 
one  impulse  over  another)  checked  her  on  the  point  of  a 


190        A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE 

burst  of  passion  which  would  have  startled  Lady  Shale 
and  Miss  Hilda  out  of  their  cold-blooded  complacency. 
In  the  silence  May's  blood  gurgled  at  her  ears,  and  she 
tottered  with  dizziness. 

*  You  may  go,1  said  Lady  Shale. 

But  May  could  not  move.  There  flashed  across  her 
the  terrible  thought  that  perhaps  she  had  humiliated 
herself  for  nothing. 

'  My  lady — I  hope — will  your  ladyship  please  to 
forgive  my  father  and  mother?  I  entreat  you  not  to 
send  them  away.  We  shall  all  be  so  grateful  to  your 
ladyship  if  you  will  overlook ' 

'  That  will  do,'  said  Lady  Shale  decisively.  '  I  will 
merely  say  that  the  sooner  you  leave  the  lodge  the 
better ;  and  that  you  will  do  well  never  again  to  pass 
the  gates  of  the  Hall.  You  may  go.' 

Miss  Rockett  withdrew.  Outside,  the  footman  was 
awaiting  her.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  grin,  and  asked 
in  an  undertone,  *  Any  good  ? '  But  May,  to  whom 
this  was  the  last  blow,  rushed  past  him,  lost  herself  in 
corridors,  ran  wildly  hither  and  thither,  tears  streaming 
from  her  eyes,  and  was  at  length  guided  by  a  maid- 
servant into  the  outer  air.  Fleeing  she  cared  not 
whither,  she  came  at  length  into  a  still  corner  of  the 
park,  and  there,  hidden  amid  trees,  watched  only  by 
birds  and  rabbits,  she  wept  out  the  bitterness  of  her 
soul. 

By  an  evening  train  she  returned  to  London,  not 
having  confessed  to  her  family  what  she  had  done,  and 
suffering  still  from  some  uncertainty  as  to  the  result. 
A  day  or  two  later  Betsy  wrote  to  her  the  happy  news 
that  the  sentence  of  expulsion  was  withdrawn,  and  peace 
reigned  once  more  in  the  ivy-covered  lodge.  By  that 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LODGE        191 

time  Miss  Rockett  had  all  but  recovered  her  self-respect, 
and  was  so  busy  in  her  secretaryship  that  she  could  only 
scribble  a  line  of  congratulation.  She  felt  that  she  had 
done  rather  a  meritorious  thing,  but,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  did  not  care  to  boast  of  it. 


THE  RIDING-WHIP 

IT  was  not  easy  for  Mr.  Daffy  to  leave  his  shop  for 
the  whole  day,  but  an  urgent  affair  called  him  to 
London,  and  he  breakfasted  early  in  order  to  catch  the 
8.30  train.  On  account  of  his  asthma  he  had  to  allow 
himself  plenty  of  time  for  the  walk  to  the  station  ;  and 
all  would  have  been  well,  but  that,  just  as  he  was  polish- 
ing his  silk  hat  and  giving  final  directions  to  his  assistant, 
in  stepped  a  customer,  who  came  to  grumble  about  the 
fit  of  a  new  coat.  Ten  good  minutes  were  thus  con- 
sumed, and  with  a  painful  glance  at  his  watch  the 
breathless  tailor  at  length  started.  The  walk  was  uphill ; 
the  sun  was  already  powerful ;  Mr.  Daffy  reached  the 
station  with  dripping  forehead  and  panting  as  if  his 
sides  would  burst.  There  stood  the  train;  he  had 
barely  time  to  take  his  ticket  and  to  rush  across  the 
platform.  As  a  porter  slammed  the  carriage-door  behind 
him,  he  sank  upon  the  seat  in  a  lamentable  condition, 
gasping,  coughing,  writhing;  his  eyes  all  but  started 
from  his  head,  and  his  respectable  top-hat  tumbled  to 
the  floor,  where  unconsciously  he  gave  it  a  kick.  A 
grotesque  and  distressing  sight. 

Only  one  person  beheld  it,  and  this,  as  it  happened,  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Daffy^s.  In  the  far  corner  sat  a  large, 
ruddy-cheeked  man,  whose  eye  rested  upon  the  sufferer 
with  a  look  of  greeting  disturbed  by  compassion.  Mr. 

102 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  193 

Lott,  a  timber-merchant  of  this  town,  was  in  every  sense 
of  the  word  a  more  flourishing  man  than  the  asthmatic 
tailor ;  his  six-feet-something  of  sound  flesh  and  muscle, 
his  ripe  sunburnt  complexion,  his  attitude  of  eupeptic 
and  broad-chested  ease,  left  the  other,  by  contrast,  scarce 
his  proverbial  fraction  of  manhood.  At  a  year  or  two 
short  of  fifty,  Mr.  Daffy  began  to  be  old ;  he  was 
shoulder-bent,  knee-shaky,  and  had  a  pallid,  wrinkled 
visage,  with  watery,  pathetic  eye.  At  fifty  turned,  Mr. 
Lott  showed  a  vigour  and  a  toughness  such  as  few  men 
of  any  age  could  rival.  For  a  score  of  years  the  measure 
of  Mr.  Lett's  robust  person  had  been  taken  by  Mr. 
Daffy's  professional  tape,  and,  without  intimacy,  there 
existed  kindly  relations  between  the  two  men.  Neither 
had  ever  been  in  the  other's  house,  but  they  had  long 
met,  once  a  week  or  so,  at  the  Liberal  Club,  where  it 
was  their  habit  to  play  together  a  game  of  draughts. 
Occasionally  they  conversed  ;  but  it  was  a  rather  one- 
sided dialogue,  for  whereas  the  tailor  had  a  sprightly 
intelligence  and — so  far  as  his  breath  allowed — a  ready 
flow  of  words,  the  timber- merchant  found  himself  at  a 
disadvantage  when  mental  activity  was  called  for.  The 
best-natured  man  in  the  world,  Mr.  Lott  would  sit  smil- 
ing and  content  so  long  as  he  had  only  to  listen ;  asked 
his  opinion  (on  anything  but  timber),  he  betrayed  by 
a  knitting  of  the  brows,  a  rolling  of  the  eyes,  an  infla- 
tion of  the  cheeks,  and  other  signs  of  discomposure,  the 
serious  effort  it  cost  him  to  shape  a  thought  and  to 
utter  it.  At  times  Mr.  Daffy  got  on  to  the  subject  of 
social  and  political  reform,  and,  after  copious  exposi- 
tion, would  ask  what  Mr.  Lott  thought.  He  knew  the 
timber-merchant  too  well  to  expect  an  immediate  reply. 
There  came  a  long  pause,  during  which  Mr.  Lott 

N 


194  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

snorted  a  little,  shuffled  in  his  chair,  and  stared  at 
vacancy,  until  at  length,  with  a  sudden  smile  of  relief, 
he  exclaimed,  '  Do  you  know  my  idea  ! '  And  the 
idea,  often  rather  explosively  stated,  was  generally 
marked  by  common-sense  of  the  bull-headed,  British 
kind. 

*  Bad   this   morning,'   remarked   Mr.   Lott,  abruptly 
but  sympathetically,  as  soon  as  the  writhing  tailor  could 
hear  him. 

4  Rather  bad — ugh,  ugh  ! — had  to  run — ugh  ! — doesn't 
suit  me,  Mr.  Lott,1  gasped  the  other,  as  he  took  the 
silk  hat  which  his  friend  had  picked  up  and  stroked 
for  him. 

*  Hot  weather  trying.1 

*  I  vary  so,1  panted  Mr.  Daffy,  wiping  his  face  with 
a  handkerchief.     '  Sometimes  one  things  seems  to  suit 
me — ugh,  ugh — sometimes  another.      Going  to   town, 
Mr.  Lott?' 

« Yes.' 

The  blunt  affirmative  was  accompanied  by  a  singular 
grimace,  such  as  might  have  been  caused  by  the  swal- 
lowing of  something  very  unpleasant ;  and  thereupon 
followed  a  silence  which  allowed  Mr.  Daffy  to  recover 
himself.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  half  closed  and  head  bent, 
leaning  back. 

They  had  a  general  acquaintance  with  each  other's 
domestic  affairs.  Both  were  widowers ;  both  lived  alone. 
Mr.  Daffy's  son  was  married,  and  dwelt  in  London  ;  the 
same  formula  applied  to  Mr.  Lott's  daughter.  And,  as 
it  happened,  the  marriages  had  both  been  a  subject  of 
parental  dissatisfaction.  Very  rarely  had  Mr.  Lott  let 
fall  a  word  with  regard  to  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Bowles,  but 
the  townsfolk  were  well  aware  that  he  thought  his  son- 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  195 

in-law  a  fool,  if  not  worse ;  Mrs.  Bowles,  in  the  seven 
years  since  her  wedding,  had  only  two  or  three  times 
revisited  her  father's  house,  and  her  husband  never  came. 
A  like  reticence  was  maintained  by  Mr.  Daffy  concern- 
ing his  son  Charles  Edward,  once  the  hope  of  his  life. 
At  school  the  lad  had  promised  well ;  tailoring  could 
not  be  thought  of  for  him  ;  he  went  into  a  solicitor's 
office,  and  remained  there  just  long  enough  to  assure 
himself  that  he  had  no  turn  for  the  law.  From  that 
day  he  was  nothing  but  an  expense  and  an  anxiety  to  his 
father,  until — now  a  couple  of  years  ago — he  announced 
his  establishment  in  a  prosperous  business  in  London,  of 
which  Mr.  Daffy  knew  nothing  more  than  that  it  was 
connected  with  colonial  enterprise.  Since  that  date 
Charles  Edward  had  made  no  report  of  himself,  and 
his  father  had  ceased  to  write  letters  which  received  no 
reply. 

Presently,  Mr.  Lott  moved  so  as  to  come  nearer  to  his 
travelling  companion,  and  said  in  a  muttering,  shame- 
faced way — 

*  Have    you    heard    any    talk    about    my    daughter 
lately  ? ' 

Mr.  Daffy  showed  embarrassment. 

*  Well,  Mr.   Lott,  I  'm    sorry  to  say  I  have   heard 
somethi  ng ' 

« Who  from  ?  ' 

'  Well — it  was  a  friend  of  mine — perhaps  I  won't 
mention  the  name — who  came  and  told  me  something — 
something  that  quite  upset  me.  That 's  what  I  'm  going 
to  town  about,  Mr.  Lott.  I  'm — well,  the  fact  is,  I  was 
going  to  call  upon  Mr.  Bowles.' 

*  Oh,    you    were ! '    exclaimed    the    timber-merchant, 
with   gruffness,   which   referred  not  to   his  friend   but 


196  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

to  his  son-in-law.  *  I  don't  particularly  want  to  see 
him,  but  I  had  thought  of  seeing  my  daughter. 
You  wouldn't  mind  saying  whether  it  was  John 

Roper ?' 

'  Yes,  it  was.' 

*  Then  we  Ve  both  heard  the  same  story,  no  doubt.' 
Mr.  Lott  leaned  back  and  stared  out  of  the  window. 

He  kept  thrusting  out  his  lips  and  drawing  them  in 
again,  at  the  same  time  wrinkling  his  forehead  into 
the  frown  which  signified  that  he  was  trying  to  shape  a 
thought. 

*  Mr.  Lott,'  resumed  the  tailor,  with  a  gravely  troubled 
look,  *  may  I  ask  if  John  Roper  made  any  mention  of 
my  son  ? ' 

The  timber-merchant  glared,  and  Mr.  Daffy,  inter- 
preting the  look  as  one  of  anger,  trembled  under  it. 

4 1  feel  ashamed  and  miserable ! '  burst  from  his 
lips. 

It 's  not  your  fault,  Mr.  Daffy,'  interrupted  the  other 
in  a  good-natured  growl.  *  You  're  not  responsible,  no 
more  than  for  any  stranger.1 

'That's  just  what  I  can't  feel,'  exclaimed  the  tailor, 
nervously  slapping  his  knee.  *  Anyway,  it  would  be  a 
disgrace  to  a  man  to  have  a  son  a  bookmaker — a  black- 
guard bookmaker.  That 's  bad  enough.  But  when  it 
comes  to  robbing  and  ruining  the  friends  of  your  own 
family — why,  I  never  heard  a  more  disgraceful  thing 
in  my  life.  How  I  'm  going  to  stand  in  my  shop,  and 
hold  up  my  head  before  my  customers,  I — do — not 
— know.  Of  course,  it  '11  be  the  talk  of  the  town ; 
we  know  what  the  Ropers  are  when  they  get  hold  of 
anything.  It  '11  drive  me  off  my  head,  Mr.  Lott,  I  'm 
sure  it  will,' 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  197 

The  timber-merchant  stretched  out  a  great  hand,  and 
laid  it  gently  on  the  excited  man's  shoulder. 

*  Don't  worry  ;  that  never  did  any  good  yet.     We  Ve 
got  to  find  out,  first  of  all,  how  much  of  Roper's  story 
is  true.     What  did  he  tell  you  ? ' 

'  He  said  that  Mr.  Bowles  had  been  going  down  the 
hill  for  a  year  or  more — that  his  business  was  neglected, 
that  he  spent  his  time  at  racecourses  and  in  public- 
houses — and  that  the  cause  of  it  all  was  my  son.  My 
son  ?  What  had  my  son  to  do  with  it  ?  Why,  didn't 
I  know  that  Charles  was  a  racing  and  betting  man,  and 
a  notorious  bookmaker?  You  can  imagine  what  sort 
of  a  feeling  that  gave  me.  Roper  couldn't  believe  it  was 
the  first  I  had  heard  of  it ;  he  said  lots  of  people  in  the 
town  knew  how  Charles  was  living.  Did  you  know,  Mr. 
Lott?' 

*  Not  I ;  I  'm  not  much  in  the  way  of  gossip.' 

*  Well,  there 's  what  Roper  said.     It  was  last  night, 
and  what  with  that  and  my  cough,  I  didn't  get  a  wink  of 
sleep  after  it.     About  three  o'clock  this  morning  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  to  London  at  once  and  see  Mr.  Bowles. 
If  it 's  true  that  he 's  been  robbed  and  ruined  by  Charles, 
I  Ve  only  one  thing  to  do — my  duty 's  plain  enough.     I 
shall  ask  him  how  much  money  Charles  has  had  of  him, 
and,  if  my  means  are  equal  to  it,  I  shall  pay  every  penny 
back — every  penny.' 

Mr.  Lett's  countenance  waxed  so  grim  that  one  would 
have  thought  him  about  to  break  into  wrath  against  the 
speaker.  But  it  was  merely  his  way  of  disguising  a 
pleasant  emotion. 

*  I  don't  think  most  men  would  see  it  in  that  way,' 
he  remarked  gruffly. 

*  Whether  they  would  or  not,'  exclaimed  Mr.  Daffy, 


198  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

panting  and  wriggling,  '  it 's  as  plain  as  plain  could  be 
that  there's  no  other  course  for  a  man  who  respects 
himself.  I  couldn't  live  a  day  with  such  a  burden  as  that 
on  my  mind.  A  bookmaker !  A  blackguard  bookmaker  ! 
To  think  my  son  should  come  to  that !  You  know  very 
well,  Mr.  Lott,  that  there 's  nothing  I  hate  and  despise 
more  than  horse-racing.  We've  often  talked  about 
it,  and  the  harm  it  does,  and  the  sin  and  shame 
it  is  that  such  doings  should  be  permitted — haven't 
we?1 

*  Course  we  have,  course  we  have,'  returned  the  other, 
with  a  nod.     But  he  was  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections, 
and  gave  only  half  an  ear  to  the  gasping  vehemences 
which  Mr.  Daffy  poured  forth  for  the  next  ten  minutes. 
There  followed  a  short  silence,  then  the  strong  man  shook 
himself  and  opened  his  lips. 

*  Do  you  know  my  idea  ?  '  he  blurted  out. 

*  What 's  that,  Mr.  Lott  ? ' 

'  If  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  go  to  see  Bowles.  Better 
for  me  to  do  that.  We've  only  gossip  to  go  upon,  and 
we  know  what  that  often  amounts  to.  Leave  Bowles  to 
me,  and  go  and  see  your  son.' 

'  But  I  don't  even  know  where  he 's  living.' 

'You  don't?  That's  awkward.  Well  then,  come 
along  with  me  to  Bowles's  place  of  business ;  as  likely 
as  not,  if  we  find  him,  he'll  be  able  to  give  you  your 
son's  address.  What  do  you  say  to  my  idea,  Mr. 
Daffy?' 

The  tailor  assented  to  this  arrangement,  on  condition 
that,  if  things  were  found  to  be  as  he  had  heard,  he 
should  be  left  free  to  obey  his  conscience.  The  stopping 
of  the  train  at  an  intermediate  station,  where  new 
passengers  entered,  put  an  end  to  the  confidential  talk. 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  199 

Mr.  Daffy,  breathing  hard,  struggled  with  his  painful 
thoughts ;  the  timber-merchant,  deeply  meditative,  let 
his  eyes  wander  about  the  carriage!  As  they  drew  near 
to  the  London  terminus,  Mr.  Lott  bent  forward  to  his 
friend. 

'  I  want  to  buy  a  present  for  my  eldest  nephew,"1  he 
remarked,  *  but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  think  what  it 
had  better  be."1 

*  Perhaps  you  '11   see   something   in   a   shop- window/ 
suggested  Mr.  Daffy. 

«  Maybe  I  shall.1 

They  alighted  at  Liverpool  Street.  Mr.  Lott  hailed  a 
hansom,  and  they  were  driven  to  a  street  in  Southwark, 
where,  at  the  entrance  of  a  building  divided  into  offices, 
one  perceived  the  name  of  Bowles  and  Perkins.  This 
firm  was  on  the  fifth  floor,  and  Mr.  Daffy  eyed  the  stair- 
case with  misgiving. 

*No  need  for  you  to  go  up,"1  said  his  companion. 
'  Wait  here,  and  I  '11  see  if  I  can  get  the  address."* 

Mr.  Lott  was  absent  for  only  a  few  minutes.  He  came 
down  again  with  his  lips  hard  set,  knocking  each  step 
sharply  with  his  walking-stick. 

*  I  Ve    got    it,"1    he    said,    and     named    a    southern 
suburb. 

'  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Bowles  ? ' 

'  No ;  he 's  out  of  town,1  was  the  reply.  *  Saw  his 
partner.1 

They  walked  side  by  side  for  a  short  way,  then  Mr. 
Lott  stopped. 

4  Do  you  know  my  idea  ?  It 's  a  little  after  eleven. 
I  'm  going  to  see  my  daughter,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall 
catch  the  3.49  home  from  Liverpool  Street.  Suppose  we 
take  our  chance  of  meeting  there  ? ' 


200  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

Thus  it  was  agreed.  Mr.  Daffy  turned  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  son's  abode ;  the  timber-merchant  went 
northward,  and  presently  reached  Finsbury  Park,  where, 
in  a  house  of  unpretentious  but  decent  appearance,  dwelt 
Mr.  Bowles.  The  servant  who  answered  the  door  wore 
a  strange  look,  as  if  something  had  alarmed  her ;  she 
professed  not  to  know  whether  any  one  was  at  home, 
and,  on  going  to  inquire,  shut  the  door  on  the  visitor's 
face.  A  few  minutes  elapsed  before  Mr.  Lott  was 
admitted.  The  hall  struck  him  as  rather  bare ;  and 
at  the  entrance  of  the  drawing-room  he  stopped  in 
astonishment,  for,  excepting  the  window-curtains  and  a 
few  ornaments,  the  room  was  quite  unfurnished.  At 
the  far  end  stood  a  young  woman,  her  hands  behind  her, 
and  her  head  bent — an  attitude  indicative  of  distress  or 
shame. 

*  Are  you  moving,  Jane  ? '  inquired  Mr.  Lott,  eyeing 
her  curiously. 

His  daughter  looked  at  him.  She  had  a  comely  face, 
with  no  little  of  the  paternal  character  stamped  upon  it ; 
her  knitted  brows  and  sullen  eyes  bespoke  a  perturbed 
humour,  and  her  voice  was  only  just  audible. 

*  Yes,  we  are  moving,  father.' 

Mr.  Lett's  heavy  footfall  crossed  the  floor.  He 
planted  himself  before  her,  his  hands  resting  on  his 
stick. 

'  What 's  the  matter,  Jane  ?     Where 's  Bowles  ? ' 

*  He  left  town  yesterday.      He  '11  be  back  to-morrow, 
I  think.' 

'You've  had  the  brokers  in  the  house — isn't  that 
it,  eh  ? ' 

Mrs.  Bowles  made  no  answer,  but  her  head  sank 
again,  and  a  trembling  of  her  shoulders  betrayed  the 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  201 

emotion  with  which  she  strove.  Knowing  that  Jane 
would  tell  of  her  misfortunes  only  when  and  how  she 
chose,  the  father  turned  away  and  stood  for  a  minute 
or  two  at  the  window ;  then  he  asked  abruptly  whether 
there  was  not  such  a  thing  as  a  chair  in  the  house.  Mrs. 
Bowles,  who  had  been  on  the  point  of  speaking,  bade 
him  come  to  another  room.  It  was  the  dining-room,  but 
all  the  appropriate  furniture  had  vanished  :  a  couple  of 
bedroom  chairs  and  a  deal  table  served  for  present  neces- 
sities. Here,  when  they  had  both  sat  down,  Mrs.  Bowles 
found  courage  to  break  the  silence. 

'  Arthur  doesn't  know  of  it.  He  went  away  yesterday 
morning,  and  the  men  came  in  the  afternoon.  He  had 
a  promise — a  distinct  promise — that  this  shouldn't  be 
done  before  the  end  of  the  month.  By  then  he  hoped 
to  have  money.' 

*  Who 's  the  creditor  ? '   inquired  Mr.  Lott,  with  a 
searching  look  at  her  face. 

Mrs.  Bowles  was  mute,  her  eyes  cast  down. 

'  Is  it  Charles  Daffy  ? ' 

Still  his  daughter  kept  silence. 

*  I     thought     so/    said    the    timber-merchant,    and 
clumped  on  the  floor  with  his  stick.      *  You  'd  better 
tell  me  all  about  it,  Jane.      I  know  something  already. 
Better  let  us  talk  it  over,  my  girl,  and  see  what  can  be 
done.' 

He  waited  a  moment.  Then  his  daughter  tried  to 
speak,  with  difficulty  overcame  a  sob,  and  at  length 
began  her  story.  She  would  not  blame  her  husband. 
He  had  been  unlucky  in  speculations,  and  was  driven  to 
a  money-lender — his  acquaintance,  Charles  Daffy.  This 
man,  a  heartless  rascal,  had  multiplied  charges  and 
interest  on  a  small  sum  originally  borrowed,  until  it 


202  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

became  a  crushing  debt.  He  held  a  bill  of  sale  on  most 
of  their  furniture,  and  yesterday,  as  if  he  knew  of  Bowles's 
absence,  had  made  the  seizure ;  he  was  within  his  legal 
rights,  but  had  led  the  debtor  to  suppose  that  he  would 
not  exercise  them.  Thus  far  did  Jane  relate,  in  a  hard, 
matter-of-fact  voice,  but  with  many  nervous  movements. 
Her  father  listened  in  grim  silence,  and,  when  she  ceased, 
appeared  to  reflect. 

*  That 's  your  story  ! '  he  said  of  a  sudden.      '  Now, 
what  about  the  horse-racing  ? ' 

*  I  know  nothing  of  horse-racing,'  was  the  cold  reply. 

'  Bowles  keeps  all  that  to  himself,  does  he  ?  We  'd 
better  have  our  talk  out,  Jane,  now  that  we  've  begun. 
Better  tell  me  all  you  know,  my  girl.' 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause ;  but  Mr.  Lott  had 
patience,  and  his  dogged  persistency  at  length  overcame 
the  wife's  pride.  Yes,  it  was  true  that  Bowles  had  lost 
money  at  races  ;  he  had  been  guilty  of  much  selfish  folly  ; 
but  the  ruin  it  had  brought  upon  him  would  serve  as  a 
lesson.  He  was  a  wretched  and  a  penitent  man  ;  a  few 
days  ago  he  had  confessed  everything  to  his  wife,  and 
besought  her  to  pardon  him ;  at  present  he  was  making- 
desperate  efforts  to  recover  an  honest  footing.  The 
business  might  still  be  carried  on  if  some  one  could  be 
induced  to  put  a  little  capital  into  it ;  with  that  in  view, 
Bowles  had  gone  to  see  certain  relatives  of  his  in  the 
north.  If  his  hope  failed,  she  did  not  know  what  was 
before  them  ;  they  had  nothing  left  now  but  their  cloth- 
ing and  the  furniture  of  one  or  two  rooms. 

*  Would  you  like  to  come  back  home  for  a  while  ? ' 
asked  Mr.  Lott  abruptly. 

'  No,  father,'  was  the  not  less  abrupt  reply.  *  I  couldn't 
do  that.' 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  203 

'I'll  give  no  money  to  Bowles.1 
'  He  has  never  asked  you,  and  never  will.' 
Mr.  Lott  glared  and  glowered,  but,  with  all  that,  had 
something  in  his  face  which  hinted  softness.  The  dialogue 
did  not  continue  much  longer ;  it  ended  with  a  promise 
from  Mrs.  Bowles  to  let  her  father  know  whether  her 
husband  succeeded  or  not  in  re-establishing  himself. 
Thereupon  they  shook  hands  without  a  word,  and  Mr. 
Lott  left  the  house.  He  returned  to  the  City,  and,  it 
being  now  nearly  two  o'clock,  made  a  hearty  meal. 
When  he  was  in  the  street  again,  he  remembered  the 
birthday  present  he  wished  to  buy  for  his  nephew,  and 
for  half  an  hour  he  rambled  vaguely,  staring  into  shop- 
windows.  At  length  something  caught  his  eye ;  it  was  a 
row  of  riding- whips,  mounted  in  silver ;  just  the  thing, 
he  said  to  himself,  to  please  a  lad  who  would  perhaps 
ride  to  hounds  next  winter.  He  stepped  in,  chose  care- 
fully, and  made  the  purchase.  Then,  having  nothing  left 
to  do,  he  walked  at  a  leisurely  pace  towards  the  railway 
station. 

Mr.  Daffy  was  there  before  him ;  they  met  at  the 
entrance  to  the  platform  from  which  their  train  would 
start. 

*  Must  you  go  back  by  this  ? '  asked  the  tailor.  *  My 
son  wasn't  at  home,  and  won't  be  till  about  five  o'clock. 
I  should  be  terribly  obliged,  Mr.  Lott,  if  you  could  stay 
and  go  to  Clapham  with  me.  Is  it  asking  too  much  ? ' 

The  timber-merchant  gave  a  friendly  nod,  and  said 
it  was  all  the  same  to  him.  Then,  in  reply  to  anxious 
questions,  he  made  brief  report  of  what  he  had  learnt 
at  Finsbury  Park.  Mr.  Daffy  was  beside  himself  with 
wrath  and  shame.  He  would  pay  every  farthing,  if  he 
had  to  sell  all  he  possessed  ! 


204  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

'  I  'm  so  glad  and  so  thankful  you  will  come  with  me, 
Mr.  Lott.  He  'd  care  nothing  for  what  /  said  ;  but 
when  he  sees  you,  and  hears  your  opinion  of  him,  it  may 
have  some  effect.  I  beg  you  to  tell  him  your  mind 
plainly  !  Let  him  know  what  a  contemptible  wretch, 
what  a  dirty  blackguard,  he  is  in  the  eyes  of  all  decent 
folk — let  him  know  it,  I  entreat  you !  Perhaps  even 
yet  it  isn't  too  late  to  make  him  ashamed  of  himself.1 

They  stood  amid  a  rush  of  people ;  the  panting  tailor 
clung  to  his  big  companion's  sleeve.  Gruffly  promising 
to  do  what  he  could,  Mr.  Lott  led  the  way  into  the 
street  again,  where  they  planned  the  rest  of  their  day. 
By  five  o'clock  they  were  at  Clapham.  Charles  Daffy 
occupied  the  kind  of  house  which  is  known  as  eminently 
respectable ;  it  suggested  an  income  of  at  least  a  couple 
of  thousand  a  year.  As  they  waited  for  the  door  to 
open,  Mr.  Lott  smote  gently  on  his  leg  with  the  new 
riding-whip.  He  had  been  silent  and  meditative  all 
the  way  hither. 

A  smart  maidservant  conducted  them  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  there,  in  a  minute  or  two,  they  were  joined 
by  Mr.  Charles.  No  one  could  have  surmised  from  this 
gentleman's  appearance  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  little 
tradesman  who  stood  before  him ;  nature  had  given  the 
younger  Mr.  Daffy  a  tall  and  shapely  person,  and  experi- 
ence of  life  had  refined  his  manners  to  an  easy  assurance 
he  would  never  have  learnt  from  paternal  example.  His 
smooth-shaven  visage,  so  long  as  it  remained  grave, 
might  have  been  that  of  an  acute  and  energetic  lawyer ; 
his  smile,  however,  disturbed  this  impression,  for  it  had 
a  twinkling  insolence,  a  raffish  facetiousness,  incom- 
patible with  any  sober  quality.  He  wore  the  morning 
dress  of  a  City  man,  with  collar  and  necktie  of  the  latest 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  205 

fashion ;  his  watchguard  was  rather  demonstrative,  and 
he  had  two  very  solid  rings  on  his  left  hand. 

*  Ah,  dad,  how  do  you  do ! '  he  exclaimed,  on  enter- 
ing,   in    an    affected    head-voice.       '  Why,   what 's   the 
matter  ? ' 

Mr.  Daffy  had  drawn  back,  refusing  the  offered  hand. 
With  an  unpleasant  smile  Charles  turned  to  his  other 
visitor. 

*  Mr.  Lott,  isn't  it !     You  're  looking  well,  Mr.  Lott ; 
but   I   suppose  you  didn't   come  here  just  to  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.     I  'm  rather  a  busy  man ; 
perhaps  one  or  the  other  of  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  break  this  solemn  silence,  and  let  me  know  what  your 
game  is.' 

He  spoke  with  careless  impertinence,  and  let  himself 
drop  on  to  a  chair.  The  others  remained  standing,  and 
Mr.  Daffy  broke  into  vehement  speech. 

*  I  have  come  here,  Charles,  to  ask  what  you  mean 
by  disgracing  yourself  and  dishonouring  my  name.    Only 
yesterday,  for  the  first  time,  I  heard  of  the  life  you  are 
leading.     Is  this  how  you  repay  me  for  all  the  trouble 
I  took  to  have  you  well  educated,  and  to  make  you  an 
honest  man  ?    Here  I  find  you  living  in  luxury  and  extra- 
vagance— and  how  ?    On  stolen  money— -money  as  much 
stolen  as  if  you   were  a  pickpocket  or  a  burglar  !     A 
pleasant  thing  for  me  to  have  all   my  friends  talking 
about   Charles   Daffy,  the   bookmaker  and   the  money- 
lender !     What  right  have  you  to  dishonour  your  father 
in  this  way  ?     I  ask,  what  right  have  you,  Charles  ? ' 

Here  the  speaker,  who  had  struggled  to  gasp  his  last 
sentence,  was  overcome  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 
He  tottered  back  and  sank  on  to  a  sofa. 

*  Are  you  here  to  look  after  him  ? '  asked  Charles  of 


206  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

Mr.  Lott,  crossing  his  legs  and  nodding  towards  the 
sufferer.  *  If  so,  I  advise  you  to  take  him  away  before 
he  does  himself  harm.  You  're  a  lot  bigger  than  he  is, 
and  perhaps  have  more  sense.' 

The  timber-merchant  stood  with  legs  slightly  apart, 
holding  his  stick  and  the  riding-whip  horizontally 
with  both  hands.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  young 
Mr.  Daffy,  and  his  lips  moved  in  rather  an  ominous 
way ;  but  he  made  no  reply  to  Charles's  smiling  remark. 

*  Mr.  Lott,'  said  the  tailor,  in  a  voice  still  broken  by 
pants  and  coughs,  <  will  you  speak  or  me  ?     Will  you 
say  what  you  think  of  him  ? ' 

*  You '11    have    to    be    quick    about    it,'    interposed 
Charles,  with  a  glance  at  his  watch.     '  I  can  give  you 
five  minutes ;  you  can  say  a  lot  in  that  time,  if  you  're 
sound  of  wind.' 

The  timber-merchant's  eyes  were  very  wide,  and  his 
cheeks  unusually  red.  Abruptly  he  turned  to  Mr.  Daffy. 

'  Do  you  know  my  idea  ?  ' 

But  just  as  he  spoke  there  sounded  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  the  smart  maidservant  cried  out  that  a  gentle- 
man wished  to  see  her  master. 

'  Who  is  it  ? '  asked  Charles. 

The  answer  came  from  the  visitor  himself,  who,  push- 
ing  the  servant  aside,  broke  into  the  room.  It  was  a 
young  man  of  no  very  distinguished  appearance,  thin, 
red-haired,  with  a  pasty  complexion  and  a  scrubby 
moustache;  his  clothes  were  approaching  shabbiness, 
and  he  had  an  unwashed  look,  due  in  part  to  hasty 
travel  on  this  hot  day.  Streaming  with  sweat,  his 
features  distorted  with  angry  excitement,  he  shouted  as 
he  entered,  *  You  've  got  to  see  me,  Daffy ;  I  won't  be 
refused  ! '  In  the  same  moment  his  glance  discovered 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  207 

the  two  visitors,  and  he  stopped  short.  f  Mr.  Lott,  you 
here  ?  I  'm  glad  of  it — I  'm  awfully  glad  of  it.  I 
couldn't  have  wished  anything  better.  I  don't  know 
who  this  other  gentleman  is,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  I  'm 
glad  to  have  witnesses — I'm  infernally  glad  !  Mr.  Lott, 
you  've  been  to  my  house  this  morning ;  you  know  what 's 
happened  there.  I  had  to  go  out  of  town  yesterday, 
and  this  Daffy,  this  cursed  liar  and  swindler,  used  the 
opportunity  to  sell  up  my  furniture.  He  '11  tell  you  he 
had  a  legal  right.  But  he  gave  me  his  word  not  to  do 
anything  till  the  end  of  the  month.  And,  in  any  case,  I 
don't  really  owe  him  half  the  sum  he  has  down  against 
me.  I've  paid  that  black-hearted  scoundrel  hundreds  of 
pounds — honourably  paid  him — debts  of  honour,  and 
now  he  has  the  face  to  charge  me  sixty  per  cent,  on 
money  I  was  fool  enough  to  borrow  from  him  !  Sixty 
per  cent. — what  do  you  think  of  that,  Mr.  Lott  ?  What 
do  you  think  of  it,  sir  ? ' 

1 1  'm  sorry  to  say  it  doesn't  at  all  surprise  me,' 
answered  Mr.  Daffy,  who  perceived  that  the  speaker  was 
Mr.  Lett's  son-in-law.  *  But  I  can't  sympathise  with 
you  very  much.  If  you  have  dealings  with  a  book- 
maker  ' 

*  A  blackleg,  a  blackleg  ! '  shouted  Bowles.  *  Book- 
makers are  respectable  men  in  comparison  with  him. 
He 's  bled  me,  the  brute  !  He  tempted  me  on  and  on — 
Look  here,  Mr.  Lott,  I  know  as  well  as  you  do  that  I  've 
been  an  infernal  fool.  I  've  had  my  eyes  opened — now 
that  it 's  too  late.  I  hear  my  wife  told  you  that,  and 
I  'm  glad  she  did.  I  've  been  a  fool,  yes ;  but  I  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  greatest  scoundrel  unhung,  and 
he 's  ruined  me.  You  heard  from  Jane  what  I  was  gone 
about.  It 's  no  good.  I  came  back  by  the  first  train 


208  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

this  morning  without  a  mouthful  of  breakfast.  It 's  all 
up  with  me ;  I  'm  a  cursed  beggar — and  that  thief  is 
the  cause  of  it.  And  he  comes  into  my  house — no 
better  than  a  burglar — and  lays  his  hands  on  everything 
that  "11  bring  money.  Where 's  the  account  of  that  sale, 
you  liar  ?  I  '11  go  to  a  magistrate  about  this.1 

Charles  Daffy  sat  in  a  reposeful  attitude.  The  scene 
amused  him  ;  he  chuckled  inwardly  from  time  to  time. 
But  of  a  sudden  his  aspect  changed ;  he  started  up,  and 
spoke  with  a  snarling  emphasis. 

'I've  had  just  about  enough.  Look  here,  clear  out, 
all  of  you  !  There 's  the  door — go  ! ' 

Mr.  Daffy  moved  towards  him. 

*  Is  that  how  you  speak  to  your  father,  Charles  ? '  he 
exclaimed  indignantly. 

'  Yes,  it  is.  Take  your  hook  with  the  others ;  I  'm 
sick  of  your  tommy-rot ! ' 

'  Then  listen  to  me  before  I  go,'  cried  Mr.  Daffy,  his 
short  and  awkward  figure  straining  in  every  muscle  for 
the  dignity  of  righteous  wrath.  *  I  don't  know  whether 
you  are  more  a  fool  or  a  knave.  Perhaps  you  really  think 
that  there 's  as  much  to  be  said  for  your  way  of  earning 
a  living  as  for  any  other.  I  hope  you  do,  for  it 's  a  cruel 
thing  to  suppose  that  my  son  has  turned  out  a  shameless 
scoundrel.  Let  me  tell  you,  then,  this  business  of  yours 
is  one  that  moves  every  honest  and  sensible  man  to 
anger  and  disgust.  It  matters  nothing  whether  you 
keep  the  rules  of  the  blackguard  game,  or  whether  you 
cheat ;  the  difference  between  bookmaker  and  blackleg 
is  so  small  that  it  isn't  worth  talking  about.  You  live 
by  the  plunder  of  people  who  are  foolish  and  vicious 
enough  to  fall  into  your  clutches.  You  're  an  enemy  of 
society — that 's  the  plain  truth  of  it ;  as  much  an  enemy 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  209 

of  society  as  the  forger  or  the  burglar.  You  live — and 
live  in  luxury — by  the  worst  vice  of  our  time,  the  vice 
which  is  rotting  English  life,  the  vice  which  will  be 
our  national  ruin  if  it  goes  on  much  longer.  When 
you  were  a  boy,  you  've  heard  me  many  a  time  say  all  I 
thought  about  racing  and  betting ;  you  Ve  heard  me 
speak  with  scorn  of  the  high-placed  people  who  set  so 
vile  an  example  to  the  classes  below  them.  If  I  could 
have  foreseen  that  you  would  sink  to  such  disgrace  ! ' 

Charles  was  standing  in  an  attitude  of  contemptuous 
patience.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  interjected  a 
remark. 

*I  can  only  allow  your  eloquence  one  minute  and  a 
half  more/ 

'That  will  be  enough,1  replied  his  father  sternly. 
*  The  only  thing  I  have  to  add  is,  that  all  the  money 
you  have  stolen  from  Mr.  Bowles  I,  as  a  simple  duty, 
shall  repay.  You  're  no  longer  a  boy.  In  the  eye  of 
the  law  I  am  not  responsible  for  you  ;  but  for  very 
shame  I  must  make  good  the  wrong  you  have  done  in 
this  case.  I  couldn't  stand  in  my  shop  day  by  day,  and 
know  that  every  one  was  saying,  "  There 's  the  man 
whose  son  ruined  Mr.  Lott's  son-in-law  and  sold  up  his 
home,"  unless  I  had  done  all  I  could  to  repair  the 
mischief.  I  shall  ask  Mr.  Bowles  for  a  full  account  of 
what  he  has  lost  to  you,  and  if  it 's  in  my  power,  every 
penny  shall  be  made  good.  He,  thank  goodness,  seems 
to  have  learnt  his  lesson.1 

*  That  I  have,  Mr.  Daffy  ;  that  I  have  ! '  cried  Bowles. 

*  There's   not    much   fear  that    foil  fall   into  your 
clutches   again.     And    I   hope,  I   most   earnestly   hope, 
that  before  you  can  do  much  more  harm,  you  11  over- 
reach yourself,  and  the  law — stupid  as  it  is — will  get 


210  THE  RIDING- WHIP 

hold  of  you.  Remember  the  father  I  was,  Charles,  and 
think  what  it  means  that  the  best  wish  I  can  now  form 
for  you  is  that  you  may  come  to  public  disgrace.1 

'  Does  no  one  applaud  ? '  asked  Charles,  looking  round 
the  room.  'That's  rather  unkind,  seeing  how  the 
speaker  has  blown  himself.  Be  off,  dad,  and  don't  fool 
any  longer.  Bowles,  take  your  hook.  Mr.  Lott ' 

Charles  met  the  eye  of  the  timber-merchant,  and  was 
unexpectedly  mute. 

*  Well,  sir,'  said   Mr.    Lott,   regarding   him   fixedly, 

*  and  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  ? ' 

*  Only  that   my  time    is  too  valuable  to  be  wasted,1 
continued  the  other,  with  an  impatient  gesture.      '  Be 
good  enough  to  leave  my  house.' 

'  Mr.  Lott,'  said  the  tailor  in  an  exhausted  voice,  '  I 
apologise  to  you  for  my  son's  rudeness.  I  gave  you  the 
trouble  of  coming  here  hoping  it  might  shame  him,  but 
I  'm  afraid  it 's  been  no  good.  Let  us  go.' 

Mr.  Lott  regarded  him  mildly. 

'  Mr.  Daffy,'  he  said,  '  if  you  don't  mind,  I  should 
like  to  have  a  word  in  private  with  your  son.  Do  you 
and  Mr.  Bowles  go  on  to  the  station,  and  wait  for  me ; 
perhaps  I  shall  catch  you  up  before  you  get  there.' 

'  I  have  told  you  already,  Mr.  Lott,'  shouted  Charles, 
4  that  I  can  waste  no  more  time  on  you.  I  refuse  to 
talk  with  you  at  all.' 

4  And  I,  Mr.  Charles  Daffy,'  was  the  resolute  answer, 

*  refuse  to  leave  this  room  till  I  have  had  a  word  with 
you.' 

'  What  do  you  want  to  say  ? '  asked  Charles  brutally. 

'  Just  to  let  you  know  an  idea  of  mine,'  was  the 
reply,  '  an  idea  that 's  come  to  me  whilst  I  've  stood  here 
listening.' 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  211 

The  tailor  and  Mr.  Bowles  moved  towards  the  door. 
Charles  glanced  at  them  fiercely  and  insolently,  then 
turned  his  look  again  upon  the  man  who  remained.  The 
other  two  passed  out ;  the  door  closed.  Mr.  Lott,  stick 
and  riding- whip  still  held  horizontally,  seemed  to  be  lost 
in  meditation. 

*  Now,'  blurted  Charles,  *  what  is  it  ? ' 

Mr.  Lott  regarded  him  steadily,  and  spoke  with  his 
wonted  deliberation. 

*  You  heard  what  your  father  said  about  paying  that 
money  back  ? ' 

*  Of  course  I  heard.     If  he 's  idiot  enough * 

*  Do  you  know  my  idea,  young  man  ?     You  'd  better 
do  the  honest  thing,  and  repay  it  yourself.' 

Charles  stared  for  a  moment,  then  sputtered  a  laugh. 

'  That 's  your  idea,  is  it,  Mr.  Lott  ?  Well,  it  isn't 
mine.  So,  good  morning  ! ' 

Again  the  timber-merchant  seemed  to  meditate ;  his 
eyes  wandered  from  Charles  to  the  dining-room  table. 

'  Just  a  minute  more,'  he  resumed  ;  *  I  have  another 
idea — not  a  new  one ;  an  idea  that  came  to  me  long 
ago,  when  your  father  first  began  to  have  trouble  about 
you.  I  happened  to  be  in  the  shop  one  day — it  was 
when  you  were  living  idle  at  your  father's  expense, 
young  man — and  I  heard  you  speak  to  him  in  what  I 
call  a  confoundedly  impertinent  way.  Thinking  it  over 
afterwards,  I  said  to  myself:  If  I  had  a  son  who  spoke 
to  me  like  that,  I  'd  give  him  the  soundest  thrashing 
he  'd  be  ever  likely  to  get.  That  was  my  idea,  young 
man ;  and  as  I  stood  listening  to  you  to-day,  it  came 
back  into  my  mind  again.  Your  father  can't  thrash 
you  ;  he  hasn't  the  brawn  for  it.  But  as  it 's  nothing 
less  than  a  public  duty,  somebody  must,  and  so ' 


212  THE  RIDING- WHIP 

Charles,  who  had  been  watching  every  movement  of 
the  speaker's  face,  suddenly  sprang  forward,  making  for 
the  door.  But  Mr.  Lott  had  foreseen  this  ;  with  astonish- 
ing alertness  and  vigour  he  intercepted  the  fugitive, 
seized  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and,  after  a 
moment's  struggle,  pinned  him  face  downwards  across 
the  end  of  the  table.  His  stick  he  had  thrown  aside  ; 
the  riding-whip  he  held  between  his  teeth.  So  brief 
was  this  conflict  that  there  sounded  only  a  scuffling  of 
feet  on  the  floor,  and  a  growl  of  fury  from  Charles  as 
he  found  himself  handled  like  an  infant ;  then,  during 
some  two  minutes,  one  might  have  thought  that  a  couple 
of  very  strenuous  carpet-beaters  were  at  work  in  the 
room.  For  the  space  of  a  dozen  switches  Charles  strove 
frantically  with  wild  kicks,  which  wounded  only  the  air, 
but  all  in  silence  ;  gripped  only  the  more  tightly,  he  at 
length  uttered  a  yell  of  pain,  followed  by  curses  hot  and 
swift.  Still  the  carpet-beaters  seemed  to  be  at  work, 
and  more  vigorously  than  ever.  Charles  began  to  roar. 
As  it  happened,  there  were  only  servants  in  the  house. 
When  the  clamour  had  lasted  long  enough  to  be  really 
alarming,  knocks  sounded  at  the  door,  which  at  length 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  startled  face  of  a  domestic 
appeared.  At  the  same  moment  Mr.  Lott,  his  right 
arm  being  weary,  brought  the  castigatory  exercise  to  an 
end.  Charles  rolled  to  his  feet,  and  began  to  strike  out 
furiously  with  both  fists. 

'Just  as  you  like,  young  man/  said  the  timber- 
merchant,  as  he  coolly  warded  off  the  blows,  '  if  you 
wish  to  have  it  this  way  too.  But,  I  warn  you,  it  isn't 
a  fair  match.  Sally,  shut  the  door  and  go  about  your 
business.1 

'  Shall  I  fetch  a  policeman,  sir  ? '  shrilled  the  servant. 


THE  RIDING-WHIP  213 

Her  master,  sufficiently  restored  to  his  senses  to 
perceive  that  he  had  not  the  least  chance  in  a  pugilistic 
encounter  with  Mr.  Lott,  drew  back  and  seemed  to 
hesitate. 

'  Answer  the  girl,1  said  Mr.  Lott,  as  he  picked  up  his 
whip  and  examined  its  condition.  '  Shall  we  have  a 
policeman  in  ? ' 

'  Shut  the  door  ! '  Charles  shouted  fiercely. 

The  men  gazed  at  each  other.  Daffy  was  pale  and 
quivering ;  his  hair  in  disorder,  his  waistcoat  torn  open, 
collar  and  necktie  twisted  into  rags,  he  made  a  pitiful 
figure.  The  timber-merchant  was  slightly  heated,  but 
his  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  calm  contentment. 

*  For  the  present,'  remarked  Mr.  Lott,  as  he  took  up 
his  hat  and  stick,  *  I  think  our  business  is  at  an  end.    It 
isn't  often  that  a  fellow  of  your  sort  gets  his  deserts, 
and    I  'm    rather    sorry  we  didn't  have   the   policeman 
in ;  a   report  of  the  case  might  do  good.     I  bid  you 
good  day,  young  man.     If  I  were  you  I  'd  sit  quiet  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  just  reflect — you  've  a  lot  to  think 
about.' 

So,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  the  visitor  took  his 
leave. 

As  he  walked  away  he  again  examined  the  riding- 
whip.  *  It  isn't  often  a  thing  happens  so  luckily,'  he 
said  to  himself.  '  First-rate  whip  ;  hardly  a  bit  damaged. 
Harry '11  like  it  none  the  worse  for  my  having  hand- 
selled it.' 

At  the  station  he  found  Mr.  Daffy  and  Bowles,  who 
regarded  him  with  questioning  looks. 

*  Nothing    to    be    got    out   of  him,'  said  Mr.   Lott. 
*  Bowles,   I   want   a  talk  with  you  and  Jane ;  it  '11  be 
best,  perhaps,  if  I  go  back  home  with  you.     Mr.  Daffy, 


214  THE  RIDING-WHIP 

sorry  we  can't  travel  down  together.  You  11  catch  the 
eight  o'clock.' 

*  I  hope  you  told  him  plainly  what  you  thought  of 
him,'  said  Mr.  Daffy,  in  a  voice  of  indignant  shame. 

'  I  did,'  answered  the  timber-merchant,  *  and  I  don't 
think  he 's  very  likely  to  forget  it.' 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

<FARMILOE.  Chemist  by  Examination.'  So  did  the 
good  man  proclaim  himself  to  a  suburb  of  a  city  in  the 
West  of  England.  It  was  one  of  those  pretty,  clean, 
fresh-coloured  suburbs  only  to  be  found  in  the  west ; 
a  few  dainty  little  shops,  everything  about  them 
bright  or  glistening,  scattered  among  pleasant  little 
houses  with  gardens  eternally  green  and  all  but  per- 
ennially in  bloom  ;  every  vista  ending  in  foliage,  and  in 
one  direction  a  far  glimpse  of  the  Cathedral  towers, 
sending  forth  their  music  to  fall  dreamily  upon  these 
quiet  roads.  The  neighbourhood  seemed  to  breathe  a 
tranquil  prosperity.  Red-cheeked  emissaries  of  butcher, 
baker,  and  grocer,  order-book  in  hand,  knocked  cheerily 
at  kitchen  doors,  and  went  smiling  away  ;  the  ponies 
they  drove  were  well  fed  and  frisky,  their  carts  spick 
and  span.  The  church  of  the  parish,  an  imposing 
edifice,  dated  only  from  a  few  years  ago,  and  had  cost 
its  noble  founder  a  sum  of  money  which  any  church- 
going  parishioner  would  have  named  to  you  with  proper 
awe.  The  population  was  largely  female,  and  every 
shopkeeper  who  knew  his  business  had  become  proficient 
in  bowing,  smiling,  and  suave  servility. 

Mr.  Farmiloe,  it  is  to  be  feared,  had  no  very  profound 
acquaintance  with  his  business  from  any  point  of  view. 
True,  he  was  *  chemist  by  examination,'  but  it  had  cost 


"15 


216         FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

him  repeated  efforts  to  reach  this  unassailable  ground, 
and  more  than  one  pharmaceutist  with  whom  he  abode 
as  assistant  had  felt  it  a  measure  of  prudence  to  dispense 
with  his  services.  Give  him  time,  and  he  was  generally 
equal  to  the  demands  of  suburban  customers  ;  hurry  or 
interrupt  him,  and  he  showed  himself  anything  but  the 
man  for  a  crisis.  Face  and  demeanour  were  against 
him.  He  had  exceedingly  plain  features,  and  a  per- 
sistently sour  expression  ;  even  his  smile  suggested 
sarcasm.  He  could  not  tune  his  voice  to  the  tradesman 
note,  and  on  the  slightest  provocation  he  became,  quite 
unintentionally,  offensive.  Such  a  man  had  no  chance 
whatever  in  this  flowery  and  bowery  little  suburb. 

Yet  he  came  hither  with  hopes.  One  circumstance 
seemed  to  him  especially  favourable :  the  shop  was  also 
a  post-office,  and  no  one  could  fail  to  see  (it  was  put 
most  impressively  by  the  predecessor  who  sold  him  the 
business)  how  advantageous  was  this  blending  of  public 
service  with  commercial  interest ;  especially  as  there  was 
no  telegraphic  work  to  make  a  skilled  assistant  necessary. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  people  using  the  post-office  would 
patronise  the  chemist ;  and  a  provincial  chemist  can  add 
to  his  legitimate  business  sundry  pleasant  little  tradings 
which  benefit  himself  without  provoking  the  jealousy  of 
neighbour  shopmen.  *  It  will  be  your  own  fault,  my  dear 
sir,  if  you  do  not  make  a  very  good  thing  of  it  indeed. 
The  sole  and  sufficient  explanation  of — of  the  decline 
during  this  last  year  or  two  is  my  shocking  health.  I 
really  have  not  been  able  to  do  justice  to  the  business.' 

Necessarily,  Mr.  Farmiloe  entered  into  negotiation 
with  the  postal  authorities  ;  and  it  was  with  some  little 
disappointment  that  he  learnt  how  very  modest  could 
be  his  direct  remuneration  for  the  responsibilities  and 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY        217 

labours  he  undertook.  The  Post-Office  is  a  very  shrewdly 
managed  department  of  the  public  service  ;  it  has  brought 
to  perfection  the  art  of  obtaining  maximum  results  with 
a  minimum  expenditure.  But  Mr.  Farmiloe  remembered 
the  other  aspect  of  the  matter ;  he  would  benefit  so 
largely  by  this  ill-paid  undertaking  that  grumbling  was 
foolish.  Moreover,  the  thing  carried  dignity  with  it ; 
he  served  his  Majesty,  he  served  the  nation.  And — ha, 
ha ! — how  very  odd  it  would  be  to  post  one^s  letters  in 
one's  own  post-office.  One  might  really  get  a  good  deal 
of  amusement  out  of  the  thought,  after  business  hours. 
His  age  was  eight-and-thirty.  For  some  years  he  had 
pondered  matrimony,  though  without  fixing  his  affec- 
tions on  any  particular  person.  It  was  plain,  indeed, 
that  he  ought  to  marry.  Every  tradesman  is  made 
more  respectable  by  wedlock,  and  a  chemist  who,  in  some 
degree,  resembles  a  medical  man,  seems  especially  to 
stand  in  need  of  the  matrimonial  guarantee.  Had  it 
been  feasible,  Mr.  Farmiloe  would  have  brought  a  wife 
with  him  from  the  town  where  he  had  lived  for  the  past 
few  years,  but  he  was  in  the  difficult  position  of  know- 
ing not  a  single  marriageable  female  to  whom  he  could 
address  himself  with  hope  or  with  self-respect.  Natural 
shyness  had  always  held  him  aloof  from  reputable 
women  ;  he  felt  that  he  could  not  recommend  himself 
to  them — he  who  had  such  an  unlucky  aptitude  for 
saying  the  wrong  word  or  keeping  silence  when  speech 
was  demanded.  With  the  men  of  his  acquaintance  he 
could  relieve  his  sense  of  awkwardness  and  deficiency  by 
becoming  aggressive ;  in  fact,  he  had  a  reputation  for 
cantankerousness,  for  pugnacity,  which  kept  most  of  his 
equals  in  some  awe  of  him,  and  to  perceive  this  was 
one  solace  amid  many  discontents.  Nicely  dressed  and 


218        FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

well-spoken  and  good-looking  women  above  the  class 
of  domestic  servants  he  worshipped  from  afar,  and  only 
in  vivacious  moments  pictured  himself  as  the  wooer  of 
such  a  superior  being. 

It  seemed  as  though  fate  could  do  nothing  with  Mr. 
Farmiloe.  At  six-and-thirty  he  suffered  the  shock  of 
learning  that  a  relative — an  old  woman  to  whom  he  had 
occasionally  written  as  a  matter  of  kindness  (Farmiloe 
could  do  such  things) — had  left  him  by  will  the  sum  of 
,£600.  It  was  strictly  a  shock ;  it  upset  his  health 
for  several  days,  and  not  for  a  week  or  two  could  he 
realise  the  legacy  as  a  fact.  Just  when  he  was  begin- 
ning to  look  about  him  with  a  new  air  of  confidence, 
the  solicitors  who  were  managing  the  little  affair  for 
him  drily  acquainted  him  with  the  fact  that  his  relative^ 
will  was  contested  by  other  kinsfolk  whom  the  old 
woman  had  passed  over,  on  the  ground  that  she  was 
imbecile  and  incapable  of  conducting  her  affairs.  There 
followed  a  law-suit,  which  consumed  many  months  and 
cost  a  good  deal  of  money ;  so  that,  though  he  won 
his  case,  Mr.  Farmiloe  lost  all  satisfaction  in  his 
improved  circumstances,  and  was  only  more  embittered 
against  the  world  at  large. 

Then,  no  sooner  had  he  purchased  his  business,  than 
he  learnt  from  smiling  neighbours  that  he  had  paid  con- 
siderably too  much  for  it.  His  predecessor,  beyond  a 
doubt,  would  have  taken  very  much  less ;  had,  indeed, 
been  on  the  point  of  doing  so  just  when  Mr.  Farmiloe 
appeared.  This  kind  of  experience  is  a  trial  to  any 
man.  It  threw  Mr.  Farmiloe  into  a  silent  rage,  with 
the  result  that  two  or  three  customers  who  chanced  to 
enter  his  shop  declared  that  they  would  never  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  such  a  surly  creature, 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY        219 

And  now  began  his  torment — a  form  of  exasperation 
peculiar  to  his  dual  capacity  of  shopkeeper  and  manager 
of  a  post-office.  All  day  long  he  stood  on  the  watch 
for  customers — literally  stood,  now  behind  the  counter, 
now  in  front  of  it,  his  eager  and  angry  eyes  turning  to 
the  door  whenever  the  steps  of  a  passer-by  sounded 
without.  If  the  door  opened  his  nerves  began  to  tingle, 
and  he  straightened  himself  like  a  soldier  at  attention. 
For  a  moment  he  suffered  an  agony  of  doubt.  Would 
the  person  entering  turn  to  the  counter  or  to  the  post- 
office  ?  And  seldom  was  his  hope  fulfilled  ;  not  one  in 
four  of  the  people  who  came  in  was  a  genuine  customer ; 
the  post-office,  always  the  post-office.  A  stamp,  a  card, 
a  newspaper  wrapper,  a  postal- order,  a  letter  to  be 
registered — anything  but  an  honest  purchase  across  the 
counter  or  the  blessed  tendering  of  a  prescription  to 
make  up.  From  vexation  he  passed  to  annoyance,  to 
rage,  to  fury ;  he  cursed  the  post-office,  and  committed 
to  eternal  perdition  the  man  who  had  waxed  eloquent 
upon  its  advantages. 

Of  course,  he  had  hired  an  errand-boy,  and  never  had 
errand-boy  so  little  legitimate  occupation.  Resolved 
not  to  pay  him  for  nothing,  Mr.  Farmiloe  kept  him 
cleaning  windows,  washing  bottles,  and  the  like,  until 
the  lad  fairly  broke  into  rebellion.  If  this  was  the 
sort  of  work  he  was  engaged  for  he  must  have  higher 
wages  ;  he  wasn^t  over  strong  and  his  mother  said  he 
must  lead  an  open-air  life — that  was  why  he  had  taken 
the  place.  To  be  bearded  thus  in  his  own  shop  was  too 
much  for  Mr.  Farmiloe,  he  seized  the  opportunity  of 
giving  his  wrath  full  swing,  and  burst  into  a  frenzy  of 
vilification.  Just  as  his  passion  reached  its  height  (he 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  door)  there  entered  a  lady 


220         FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

who  wished  to  make  a  large  purchase  of  disinfectants. 
Alarmed  and  scandalised  at  what  was  going  on,  she  had 
no  sooner  crossed  the  threshold  than  she  turned  again, 
and  hurried  away.  Her  friends  were  not  long  in 
learning  from  her  that  the  new  chemist  was  a  most 
violent  man,  a  most  disagreeable  person — the  very  last 
man  one  could  think  of  doing  business  with. 

The  home  was  but  poorly  furnished,  and  Mr.  Farmiloe 
had  engaged  a  very  cheap  general  servant,  who  involved 
him  in  dirt  and  discomfort.  It  was  a  matter  of  talk 
among  the  neighbouring  tradesmen  that  the  chemist 
lived  in  a  beggarly  fashion.  When  the  dismissed  errand- 
boy  spread  the  story  of  how  he  had  been  used,  people 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Farmiloe  drank. 
Before  long  there  was  a  legend  that  he  had  been  suffer- 
ing from  an  acute  attack  of  delirium  tremens. 

The  post-office,  always  the  post-office.  If  he  sat  down 
at  a  meal  the  shop-bell  clanged,  and  hope  springing 
eternal,  he  hurried  forth  in  readiness  to  make  up  a  packet 
or  concoct  a  mixture  ;  but  it  was  an  old  lady  who  held 
him  in  talk  for  ten  minutes  about  rates  of  postage  to 
South  America.  When,  by  rare  luck,  he  had  a  prescrip- 
tion to  dispense  (the  hideous  scrawl  of  that  pestilent 
Dr.  Bunker)  in  came  somebody  with  letters  and  parcels 
which  he  was  requested  to  weigh ;  and  his  hand  shook 
so  with  rage  that  he  could  not  resume  his  dispensing  for 
the  next  quarter  of  an  hour.  People  asked  extraordinary 
questions,  and  were  surprised,  offended,  when  he  declared 
he  could  not  answer  them.  When  could  a  letter  be 
delivered  at  a  village  on  the  north-west  coast  of  Ireland  ? 
Was  it  true  that  the  Post-Office  contemplated  a  reduc- 
tion of  rates  to  Hong- Kong  ?  Would  he  explain  in 
detail  the  new  system  of  express  delivery  ?  Invariably 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

he  betrayed  impatience,  and  occasionally  he  lost  his 
temper ;  people  went  away  exclaiming  what  a  horrid 
man  he  was ! 

*  Mr.  What  's-your-name,'  said  a  shopkeeper  one  day, 
after  receiving  a  short  answer,  '  I  shall  make  it  my  busi- 
ness to  complain  of  you  to  the  Postmaster-General.     I 
don't  come  here  to  be  insulted.1 

*  Who  insulted  you  ? '  returned  Farmiloe  like  a  sullen 
schoolboy. 

*  Why,  you  did.     And  you  are  always  doing  it.' 
<  I  'm  not.' 

'  You  are.' 

*  If  I  did ' — terror  stole  upon  the  chemist's  heart — '  I 
didn't  mean  it,  and  I — I  'm  sure  I  apologise.   It 's  a  way 
I  have.' 

'  A  damned  bad  way,  let  me  tell  you.  I  advise  you 
to  get  out  of  it.' 

*  I  'm  sorry ' 

'  So  you  should  be.' 

And  the  tradesman  walked  off,  only  half  appeased. 

Mr.  Farmiloe  could  have  shed  tears  in  his  mortification, 
and  for  some  minutes  he  stood  looking  at  a  bottle  of 
laudanum,  wishing  he  had  the  courage  to  have  done 
with  life.  Plainly  he  could  not  live  very  long  unless 
things  improved.  His  ready  money  was  coming  to  an 
end,  rents  and  taxes  loomed  before  him.  An  awful 
thought  of  bankruptcy  haunted  him  in  the  early  morning 
hours. 

The  most  frequent  visitor  to  the  post-office  was  a 
well-dressed,  middle-aged  man,  who  spoke  civilly,  and 
did  his  business  in  the  fewest  possible  words.  Mr. 
Farmiloe  rather  liked  the  look  of  him,  and  once  or 
twice  made  conversational  overtures,  but  with  no  en- 


222        FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

couraging  result.  One  day,  feeling  bolder  than  usual, 
the  chemist  ventured  to  speak  what  he  had  in  mind. 
After  supplying  the  grave  gentleman  with  stamps  and 
postal-orders,  he  said,  in  a  tone  meant  to  be  concilia- 
tory— 

'  I  don't  know  whether  you  ever  have  need  of  mineral 
waters,  sir  ? ' 

'  Why,  yes,  sometimes.  My  ordinary  tradesman 
supplies  them.' 

*  I  thought  I  'd  just   mention  that  I  keep  them  in 
stock.' 

*  Ah — thank  you ' 

*  I  've  noticed,'  went  on  the  luckless  apothecary,  his 
bosom  heaving  with  a  sense  of  his  wrongs,  '  that  you  're 
a  pretty  large  customer  of  the  post-office,  and  it  seems 
to  me' — he  meant  to  speak  jocosely — 'that  it  would  be 
only  fair  if  you  gave  me  a  turn  now  and  then.      I  get 
next  to   nothing  out  of  this,  you  know.      I  should  be 
much  obliged  if  you ' 

The  man  of  few  words  was  looking  at  him,  half  in 
surprise,  half  in  indignation,  and  when  the  chemist 
blundered  into  silence  he  spoke  : — 

*  I  really  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.     As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  was  on  the  point  of  making  a  little  purchase 
in  your  shop,  but  I  decidedly  object    to  this  kind  of 
behaviour,  and  shall  make  my  purchase  elsewhere.' 

He  strode  solemnly  into  the  street,  and  Mr.  Farmiloe, 
unconscious  of  all  about  him,  glared  at  vacancy. 

Whether  from  the  angry  tradesman,  or  from  some 
lady  with  whom  Mr.  Farmiloe  had  been  abrupt,  a 
complaint  did  presently  reach  the  postal  authorities, 
with  the  result  that  an  official  called  at  the  chemist's 
shop.  The  interview  was  unpleasant.  It  happened 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY         223 

that  Mr.  Farmiloe  (not  for  the  first  time)  had  just  then 
allowed  himself  to  run  out  of  certain  things  always  in 
demand  by  the  public — halfpenny  stamps,  for  instance. 
Moreover,  his  accounts  were  not  in  perfect  order.  This, 
he  had  to  hear,  was  emphatically  unbusinesslike,  and,  in 
brief,  would  not  do. 

'  It  shall  not  occur  again,  sir,'  mumbled  the  unhappy 
man.  '  But,  if  you  consider  my  position ' 

*  Mr.    Farmiloe,  allow  me  to  tell   you   that  this   is 
a  matter    for    your    own   consideration,   and    no     one 
else's.' 

'  True,  sir,  quite  true.  Still,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it — I  assure  you ' 

*  The  only  assurance  I  want  is  that    the  business  of 
the  post-office  will  be  properly  attended  to,  and   that 
assurance  I  must  have.      I  shall    probably    call   again 
before  long.     Good  morning.' 

It  was  always  with  a  savage  satisfaction  that  Mr. 
Farmiloe  heard  the  clock  strike  eight  on  Saturday 
evening.  His  shop  remained  open  till  ten,  but  at  eight 
came  the  end  of  the  post-office  business.  If,  as 
happened,  any  one  entered  five  minutes  too  late,  it 
delighted  him  to  refuse  their  request.  These  were  the 
only  moments  in  which  he  felt  himself  a  free  man. 
After  eating  his  poor  supper,  he  smoked  a  pipe  or  two 
of  cheap  tobacco,  brooding ;  or  he  fingered  the  pages  of 
his  menacing  account-books ;  or,  very  rarely,  he  walked 
about  the  dark  country  roads,  asking  himself,  with  many 
a  tragi-comic  gesture  and  ejaculation,  why  he  could  not 
get  on  like  other  men. 

One  afternoon  it  seemed  that  he,  at  length,  had  his 
chance.  There  entered  a  maidservant  with  a  prescrip- 
tion to  be  made  up  and  sent  as  soon  as  possible.  A 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

glance  at  the  name  delighted  Mr.  Farmiloe ;  it  was  that 
of  the  richest  family  in  the  suburbs.  The  medicine,  to 
be  sure,  was  only  for  a  governess,  but  his  existence  was 
recognised,  and  the  patronage  of  such  people  would  do 
him  good.  But  for  the  never -sufficiently -to -be -con- 
demned handwriting  of  Dr.  Bunker,  the  prescription 
offered  no  difficulty.  Rubbing  his  palms  together,  and 
smiling  as  he  seldom  smiled,  he  told  the  domestic  that 
the  medicine  should  be  delivered  in  less  than  half  an 
hour. 

Scarcely  had  he  begun  upon  it,  when  a  lady  came  in, 
a  lady  whom  he  knew  well.  Her  business  was  at  the 
post-office  side,  and  she  looked  a  peremptory  demand  for 
his  attention.  Inwardly  furious,  he  crossed  the  shop. 

'  Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  this  will  cost  by  book- 
post.' 

It  seemed  to  be  a  pamphlet.  Giving  a  glance  at  one 
of  the  open  ends,  Mr.  Farmiloe  saw  handwriting  within, 
and  his  hostility  to  the  woman  found  vent  in  a  sharp 
remark. 

'  There 's  a  written  communication  in  this.  It  will 
be  letter  rate.' 

The  lady  eyed  him  with  terrible  scorn. 

'You  will  oblige  me  by  minding  your  own  business. 
Your  remark  is  the  merest  impertinence.  That  packet 
consists  of  MS.,  and  will,  therefore,  go  at  book  rate. 
Be  so  good  as  to  weigh  it  at  once.' 

Mr.  Farmiloe  lost  all  control  of  himself,  and  well- 
nigh  screamed. 

'  No,  madam,  I  will  not  weigh  it.  And  let  me 
inform  you,  as  you  are  so  ignorant,  that  to  weigh  packets 
is  not  part  of  my  duty.  I  do  it  merely  to  oblige  civil 
persons,  and  you,  madam,  are  not  one  of  them.' 


FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY        225 

The  lady  instantly  turned  and  withdrew. 

*  Damn  the  post-office ! '  yelled  Mr.  Farmiloe,  alone 
with  his  errand-boy,  and  shaking  his  fist  in  the  air. 
*  This  very  day  I  write  to  give  it  up.  I  say — damn  the 
post-office.1 

He  returned  to  his  dispensing,  completed  it,  wrapped 
up  the  bottle  in  the  customary  manner,  and  despatched 
the  boy  to  the  house. 

Five  minutes  later  a  thought  flashed  through  his 
mind  which  put  him  in  a  cold  sweat.  He  happened  to 
glance  along  the  shelf  from  which  he  had  taken  the 
bottle  containing  the  last  ingredient  of  the  mixture, 
and  it  struck  him,  with  all  the  force  of  a  horrible  doubt, 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  In  the  irate  confusion 
of  his  thoughts,  he  had  done  the  dispensing  almost 
mechanically.  The  bottle  he  ought  to  have  taken  down 
was  that,  but  had  he  not  actually  poured  from  that 
other  ?  Of  poisoning  there  was  no  fear,  but,  if  indeed 
he  had  made  a  slip,  the  result  would  be  a  very  extra- 
ordinary mixture  ;  so  surprising,  in  fact,  that  the  patient 
would  be  sure  to  speak  to  Dr.  Bunker  about  it.  Good 
heavens  !  He  felt  sure  he  had  made  the  mistake. 

Any  other  man  would  have  taken  down  the  two 
bottles  in  question,  and  have  examined  the  mouths  of 
them  for  traces  of  moisture.  Mr.  Farmiloe,  a  victim  of 
destiny,  could  do  nothing  so  reasonable.  Heedless  of 
the  fact  that  his  shop  remained  unguarded,  he  seized  his 
hat  and  rushed  after  the  errand-boy.  If  he  could  only 
have  a  sniff'  at  the  mixture  it  would  either  confirm  his 
fear  or  set  his  mind  at  rest.  He  tore  along  the  road — 
and  was  too  late.  The  boy  met  him,  having  just 
completed  his  errand. 

With  a  wild  curse  he  sped  to  the  house,  he  rushed  to 


226        FATE  AND  THE  APOTHECARY 

the  tradesman's  door.  The  medicine  just  delivered  ! 
He  must  examine  it — he  feared  there  was  a  mistake — an 
extraordinary  oversight. 

The  bottle  had  not  yet  been  upstairs.      Mr.  Farmiloe 
tore  off  the  wrapper,  wrenched  out  the  cork,  sniffed — 
and  smiled  feebly. 

'  Thank  you.  I  'm  glad  to  find  there  was  no  mistake. 
I  '11  take  it  back,  and  have  it  wrapped  up  again,  and 
send  it  immediately — immediately.  And,  by  the  bye ' — 
he  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  half-a-crown,  still  smiling 
like  a  detected  culprit — ' I  'm  sure  you  won't  mention 
this  little  affair.  A  new  assistant  of  mine — stupid 
fellow — I  am  going  to  get  rid  of  him  at  once.  Thank 
you,  thank  you.' 

Notwithstanding  that  half-crown  the  incident  was,  of 
course,  talked  of  through  the  house  before  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  had  elapsed.  Next  day  it  was  the  gossip  of 
the  suburbs ;  and  the  day  after  the  city  itself  heard  the 
story.  People  were  alarmed  and  scandalised.  Why, 
such  a  chemist  was  a  public  danger  !  One  lady  declared 
that  he  ought  at  once  to  be  *  struck  off  the  roll ! ' 

And  so  in  a  sense  he  was.  Another  month  and  the 
flowery,  bowery  little  suburb  knew  him  no  more.  He 
hid  himself  in  a  great  town,  living  on  the  wreck  of  his 
fortune  whilst  he  sought  a  place  as  an  assistant.  A 
leaky  paip  of  boots  and  a  bad  east  wind  found  the 
vulnerable  spot  of  his  constitution.  After  all,  there 
was  just  enough  money  left  to  bury  him. 


TOPHAM'S  CHANCE 

CHAPTER  I 

ON  a  summer  afternoon  two  surly  men  sat  together  in  a 
London  lodging.  One  of  them  occupied  an  easy-chair, 
smoked  a  cigarette,  and  read  the  newspaper ;  the  other 
was  seated  at  the  table,  with  a  mass  of  papers  before 
him,  on  which  he  laboured  as  though  correcting  exercises. 
They  were  much  of  an  age,  and  that  about  thirty,  but 
whereas  the  idler  was  well  dressed,  his  companion  had  a 
seedy  appeal  unce  and  looked  altogether  like  a  man  who 
neglected  himself.  For  half  an  hour  they  had  not 
spoken. 

Of  a  sudden  the  man  in  the  chair  jumped  up. 

*  Well,  I  have  to  go  into  town,'  he  said  gruffly,  *  and 
it's  uncertain  when  I  shall  be  back.  Get  that  stuff 
cleared  off,  and  reply  to  the  urgent  letters — mind  you 
write  in  the  proper  tone  to  Dixon — as  soapy  as  you  can 
make  it.  Tell  Miss  Brewer  we  can't  reduce  the  fees, 
but  that  we  Ml  give  her  credit  for  a  month.  Guarantee 
the  Leicestershire  fellow  a  pass  if  he  begins  at  once.' 

The  other,  who  listened,  bit  the  end  of  his  wooden 
penholder  to  splinters. 

'  All  right,'  he  replied.  *  But,  look  here,  I  want  a 
little  money.' 

'Sodol' 

m 


228  TOPHAM'S  CHANCE 

*  Yes,  but  you  're  not  like  me,  without  a  coin  in  your 
pocket.      Look    here,  give    me  half-a-crown.      I    have 
absolute  need  of  it.    Why,  I  can't  even  get  my  hair  cut. 
I  'm  sick  of  this  slavery.' 

*  Then  go  and  do  better,'  cried  the  well-dressed  man 
insolently.     *  You  were  glad  enough  of  the  job  when  I 
offered  it  to  you.      It's  no  good  your  looking  to  me  for 
money.    I  can  do  no  more  myself  than  just  live  ;  and  as 
soon  as  I  see  a  chance,  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  clear  out 
of  this  rotten  business.' 

He  moved  towards  the  door,  but  before  opening  it 
stood  hesitating. 

'  Want  to  get  your  hair  cut,  do  you  ?  Well,  there's 
sixpence,  and  it's  all  I  can  spare.' 

The  door  closed.  And  the  man  at  the  table,  leaning 
back,  stared  gloomily  at  the  sixpenny  piece  on  the  table 
before  him. 

His  name  was  Topham  ;  he  had  a  university  degree 
and  a  damaged  reputation.  Six  months  ago,  when  his 
choice  seemed  to  be  between  staying  in  the  streets  and 
turning  sandwich-man,  luck  had  made  him  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Rudolph  Starkey,  who  wrote  himself  M.A.  of 
Dublin  University  and  advertised  a  system  of  tuition  by 
correspondence.  In  return  for  mere  board  and  lodging 
Topham  became  Mr.  Starkey's  assistant ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  did  by  far  the  greater  part  of  Mr.  Starkey's  work. 
The  tutorial  business  was  but  moderately  successful ; 
still,  it  kept  its  proprietor  in  cigarettes,  and  enabled  him 
to  pass  some  hours  a  day  at  a  club,  where  he  was  con- 
vinced that  before  long  some  better  chance  in  life  would 
offer  itself  to  him.  Having  always  been  a  lazy  dog, 
Starkey  regarded  himself  as  an  example  of  industry  un- 
rewarded ;  being  as  selfish  a  fellow  as  one  could  meet, 


TOPHAM'S  CHANCE  229 

he  reproached  himself  with  the  unworldliness  of  his 
nature,  which  had  so  hindered  him  in  a  basely  material 
age.  One  of  his  ventures  was  a  half-moral,  half- practical 
little  volume  entitled  Success  in  Life.  Had  it  been 
either  more  moral  or  more  practical,  this  book  would 
probably  have  yielded  him  a  modest  income,  for  such 
works  are  dear  to  the  British  public ;  but  Rudolph 
Starkey,  M.A.,  was  one  of  those  men  who  do  everything 
by  halves  and  snarl  over  the  ineffectual  results. 

Topham's  fault  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  followed 
his  instincts  but  too  thoroughly.  They  brought  him  to 
an  end  of  everything,  and,  as  Starkey  said,  he  had  been 
glad  enough  to  take  the  employment  which  was  offered 
without  any  inconvenient  inquiries.  The  work  which  he 
undertook  he  did  competently  and  honestly  for  some  time 
without  a  grumble.  Beginning  with  a  certain  gratitude 
to  his  employer,  though  without  any  liking,  he  soon  grew 
to  detest  the  man,  and  had  much  ado  to  keep  up  a  show 
of  decent  civility  in  their  intercourse.  Of  better  birth 
and  breeding  than  Starkey,  he  burned  with  resentment 
at  the  scant  ceremony  with  which  he  was  treated,  and 
loathed  the  meanness  which  could  exact  so  much  toil 
for  such  poor  remuneration.  When  offering  his  terms 
Starkey  had  talked  in  that  bland  way  characteristic  of 
him  with  strangers. 

*  I  'm  really  ashamed  to  propose  nothing  better  to  a 
man  of  your  standing.  But — well,  I  "m  making  a  start, 
you  see,  and  the  fact  of  the  matter  is  that,  just  at  present, 
I  could  very  well  manage  to  do  all  the  work  myself.  Still, 
if  you  think  it  worth  your  while,  there 's  no  doubt  we  shall 
get  on  capitally  together,  and,  of  course,  I  need  not  say, 
as  soon  as  our  progress  justifies  it,  we  must  come  to  new 
arrangements.  A  matter  of  six  or  seven  hours  a  day 


230  TOPHAM'S  CHANCE 

will  be  all  I  shall  ask  of  you  at  present.      For  my  own 
part,  I  work  chiefly  at  night.1 


CHAPTER  H 

By  the  end  of  the  first  month  Topham  was  working, 
not  six  or  seven,  but  ten  or  twelve  hours  a  day,  and 
his  spells  of  labour  only  lengthened  as  time  went  on. 
Seeing  himself  victimised,  he  one  day  alluded  to  the 
promise  of  better  terms,  but  Starkey  turned  sour. 

'  You  surprise  me,  Topham.  Here  are  we,  practically 
partners,  doing  our  best  to  make  this  thing  a  success, 
and  all  at  once  you  spring  upon  me  an  unreasonable 
demand.  You  know  how  expensive  these  rooms  are — for 
we  must  have  a  decent  address.  If  you  are  dissatisfied, 
say  so,  and  give  me  time  to  look  out  for  some  one  else.' 

Topham  was  afraid  of  the  street,  and  that  his  employer 
well  knew.  The  conversation  ended  in  mutual  sullen- 
ness,  which  thenceforward  became  the  note  of  their 
colloquies.  Starkey  felt  himself  a  victim  of  ingratitude, 
and  consequently  threw  even  more  work  upon  his  help- 
less assistant.  That  the  work  was  so  conscientiously 
done  did  not  at  all  astonish  him.  Now  and  then  he 
gave  himself  the  satisfaction  of  finding  fault :  just  to 
remind  Topham  that  his  bread  depended  on  another's 
goodwill.  Congenial  indolence  grew  upon  him,  but  he 
talked  only  the  more  of  his  ceaseless  exertions.  Some- 
times in  the  evening  he  would  throw  up  his  arms,  yawn 
wearily,  and  declare  that  so  much  toil  with  such  paltry 
results  was  a  heart-breaking  thing. 

Topham  stared  sullenly  at  the  sixpence.  This  was 
but  the  latest  of  many  insults,  yet  never  before  had 


TOPHAM'S  CHANCE  231 

he  so  tasted  the  shame  of  his  subjection.  Though  he 
was  earning  a  living,  and  a  right  to  self-respect,  more 
strenuously  than  Starkey  ever  had,  this  fellow  made  him 
feel  like  a  mendicant.  His  nerves  quivered,  he  struck  the 
table  fiercely,  shouting  within  himself,  '  Brute !  Cad  ! ' 
Then  he  pocketed  the  coin  and  got  on  with  his  duties. 

It  was  toil  of  a  peculiarly  wearisome  and  enervating 
kind.  Starkey 's  advertisements,  which  were  chiefly  in 
the  country  newspapers,  put  him  in  communication  with 
persons  of  both  sexes,  and  of  any  age  from  seventeen 
onwards,  the  characteristic  common  to  them  all  being  in- 
experience and  intellectual  helplessness.  Most  of  these 
correspondents  desired  to  pass  some  examination  ;  a  few 
aimed — or  professed  to  aim — merely  at  self-improvement, 
or  what  they  called  'culture.'  Starkey,  of  course,  under- 
took tuition  in  any  subject,  to  any  end,  stipulating  only 
that  his  fees  should  be  paid  in  advance.  Throughout 
the  day  his  slave  had  been  correcting  Latin  and  Greek 
exercises,  papers  in  mathematical  or  physical  science, 
answers  to  historical  questions  :  all  elementary  and  many 
grotesquely  bad.  On  completing  each  set  he  wrote  the 
expected  comment ;  sometimes  briefly,  sometimes  at  con- 
siderable length.  He  now  turned  to  a  bundle  of  so- 
called  essays,  and  on  opening  the  first  could  not  repress 
a  groan.  No  !  This  was  beyond  his  strength.  He 
would  make  up  the  parcels  for  post,  write  the  half-dozen 
letters  that  must  -be  sent  to-day,  and  go  out.  Had  he 
not  sixpence  in  his  pocket  ? 

Just  as  he  had  taken  this  resolve  some  one  knocked 
at  the  sitting-room  door,  and  with  the  inattention  of  a 
man  who  expects  nothing,  Topham  bade  enter. 

*  A  gen'man  asking  for  Mr.  Starkey,  sir,'  said  the 
servant. 


*  All  right.     Send  him  in.' 

And  then  entered  a  man  whose  years  seemed  to  be 
something  short  of  fifty,  a  hale,  ruddy-cheeked,  stoutish 
man,  whose  dress  and  bearing  made  it  probable  that  he 
was  no  Londoner. 

*  Mr.  Stark  ey,  M.A.  ? '  he  inquired,  rather  nervously, 
though  his  smile  and  his  upright  posture  did  not  lack  a 
certain  dignity. 

*  Quite  right,'  murmured  Topham,  who  was  authorised 
to  represent  his  principal  to  any  one  coming  on  business. 
*  Will  you  take  a  seat  ?  •' 

*  You  will  know  my  name,'  began  the  stranger.    '  Wig- 
more — Abraham  Wigmore.' 

4  Very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Wigmore.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  sending  your  last  batch  of  papers  to  the 
post.  You  will  find,  this  time,  I  have  been  able  to 
praise  them  unreservedly.' 

The  listener  fairly  blushed  with  delight ;  then  he 
grasped  his  short  beard  with  his  left  hand  and  laughed 
silently,  showing  excellent  teeth. 

4  Well,  Mr.  Starkey,'  he  replied  at  length  in  a 
moderately  subdued  voice,  '  I  did  really  think  I  'd 
managed  better  than  usual.  But  there's  much  thanks 
due  to  you,  sir.  You  've  helped  me,  Mr.  Starkey,  you 
really  have.  And  that 's  one  reason  why,  happening  to 
come  up  to  London,  I  wished  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you ;  I  really  did  want  to  thank  you,  sir.' 


CHAPTER  III 

Topham  was  closely  observing  this  singular  visitor.    He 
had  always  taken  *  Abraham  Wigmore '  for  a  youth  of 


TOPHAM'S  CHANCE  233 

nineteen  or  so,  some  not  over-bright,  but  plodding  and 
earnest  clerk  or  counter-man  in  the  little  Gloucestershire 
town  from  which  the  correspondent  wrote ;  it  astonished 
him  to  see  this  mature  and  most  respectable  person. 
They  talked  on.  Mr.  Wigmore  had  a  slight  west- 
country  accent,  but  otherwise  his  language  differed  little 
from  that  of  the  normally  educated ;  in  every  word  he 
revealed  a  good  and  kindly,  if  simple,  nature.  At  length 
a  slight  embarrassment  interfered  with  the  flow  of  his 
talk,  which,  having  been  solely  of  tuitional  matters,  began 
to  take  a  turn  more  personal.  Was  he  taking  too  much 
of  Mr.  Starkey's  time  ?  Reassured  on  this  point,  he 
begged  leave  to  give  some  account  of  himself. 

*  I  dare  say,  Mr.  Starkey,  you  're  surprised  to  see  how 
old  I  am.     It  seems  strange  to  you,  no  doubt,  that  at 
my  age  I  should  be  going  to  school.'     He  grasped  his 
beard  and  laughed.      '  Well,  it  is  strange,  and  I  'd  like 
to  explain  it  to  you.     To  begin  with,  I  '11  tell  you  what 
my  age  is  ;  I  'm  seven-and-forty.      Only  that.      But  I  'm 
the  father  of  two  daughters — both  married.   Yes,  I  was 
married  young  myself,  and  my  good  wife  died  long  ago, 
more's  the  pity.' 

He  paused,  looked  round  the  room,  stroked  his  hard- 
felt  hat,  Topham  murmuring  a  sympathetic  sound. 

*  Now,   as    to    my   business,    Mr.    Starkey.      I  'm    a 
fruiterer  and  greengrocer.      I  might  have  said  fruiterer 
alone ;  it  sounds  more  respectable,  but  the  honest  truth 
is,  I  do  sell  vegetables  as  well,  and  I  want  you  to  know 
that,  Mr.  Starkey.     Does  it  make  you  feel  ashamed  of 
me?' 

*  My  dear  sir  !     What  business  could  be  more  honour- 
able ?     I  heartily  wish  I  had  one  as  good  and  as  lucra- 
tive.' 


234  TOPHAM'S  CHANCE 

*  Well,  that  's  your  kindness,  sir,'  said  Wigmore,  with 
a  pleased  smile.      '  The  fact  is,  I  have  done  pretty  well, 
though  I  'm  not  by  any  means  a  rich  man  :  comfortable, 
that 's  all.      I  gave  my  girls  a  good  schooling,  and  what 
with  that  and  their  good  looks,  they  Ve  both  made  what 
may  be  called  better  marriages  than  might   have   been 
expected.      For  down  in  our  country,  you  know,  sir,  a 
shopkeeper  is  one  thing,   and  a  gentleman's  another. 
Now  my  girls  have  married  gentlemen.' 

Again  he  paused,  and  with  emphasis.  Again  Topham 
murmured,  this  time  congratulation. 

4  One  of  them  is  wife  to  a  young  solicitor  ;  the  other 
to  a  young  gentleman  farmer.  And  they  've  both  gone 
to  live  in  another  part  of  the  country.  I  dare  say  you 
understand  that,  Mr.  Starkey  ?  ' 

The  speaker's  eyes  had  fallen  ;  at  the  same  time  a 
twitching  of  the  brows  and  hardening  of  the  mouth 
changed  the  expression  of  his  face,  marking  it  with  an 
unexpected  sadness,  all  but  pain. 

'  Do  you  mean,  Mr.  Wigmore,'  asked  Topham,  '  that 
your  daughters  desire  to  live  at  a  distance  from  you  ? ' 

*  Well,  I  'm  sorry  to  say  that 's  what  I  do  mean,  Mr. 
Starkey.      My    son-in-law    the    solicitor    had    intended 
practising  in  the  town  where  he  was  born ;  instead  of 
that  he  went  to  another  a  long  way  off.     My  son-in-law 
the  gentleman  farmer  was  to  have  taken  a  farm  close  by 
us ;  he  altered  his  mind,  and  went  into  another  county. 
You    see,   sir !      It 's  quite  natural  :    I  find  no  fault. 
There 's  never  been  an  unkind  word  between  any  of  us. 
But ' 

He  was  growing  more  and  more  embarrassed. 
Evidently  the  man  had  something  he  wished  to  say, 
something  to  which  he  had  been  leading  up  by  this 


TOPHAM'S  CHANCE  235 

disclosure  of  his  domestic  affairs  ;  but  he  could  not  utter 
his  thoughts.  Topham  tried  the  commonplaces  natur- 
ally suggested  by  the  situation  ;  they  were  received  with 
gratitude,  but  still  Mr.  Wigmore  hung  his  head  and 
talked  vaguely,  with  hesitations,  pauses. 

'  I  Ve  always  been  what  one  may  call  serious-minded, 
Mr.  Starkey.  As  a  boy  I  liked  reading,  and  I  Ve  always 
had  a  book  at  hand  for  my  leisure  time — the  kind  of 
book  that  does  one  good.  Just  now  I'm  reading  The 
Christian  Year.  And  since  my  daughters  married — 
well,  as  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Starkey,  I  Ve  done  pretty  well  in 
business — there's  really  no  reason  why  I  should  keep  on 
in  my  shop,  if  I  chose  to — to  do  otherwise.' 

*  I  quite  understand,'  interrupted  Topham,  in  whom 
there  began  to  stir  a  thought  which  made  his  brain 
warm.     *  You  would  like  to  retire  from  business.     And 
you  would  like  to — well,  to  pursue  your  studies  more 
seriously.' 

Again  Wigmore  looked  grateful,  but  even  yet  the 
burden  was  not  off  his  mind. 

'  I  know,'  he  resumed  presently,  turning  his  hat  round 
and  round, '  that  it  sounds  a  strange  thing  to  say,  but — 
well,  sir,  I  Ve  always  done  my  best  to  live  as  a  religious 
man.' 

'  Of  that  I  have  no  doubt  whatever,  Mr.  Wigmore.' 

*  Well,  then,  sir,  what  I  should  like  to  ask  you  is 
this.     Do  you  think,  if  I  gave  up  the  shop  and  worked 
very  hard  at  my  studies — with    help,  of   course,  with 
help, — do  you  think,  Mr.  Starkey,  that  I  could  hope  to 
get  on  ? ' 

He  was  red  as  a  peony ;  his  voice  choked. 

*  You    mean,'    put    in    Topham,    he,  too,  becoming 
excited,  '  to  become  a  really  well-educated  man  ? ' 


236  TOPHAM'S  CHANCE 

*  Yes,  sir,  yes.     But  more  than    that.      I  want,  Mr. 
Starkey,  to  make  myself  —  something  —  so    that    my 
daughters  and  my  sons-in-law  would  never  feel  ashamed 
of  me — so  that  their  children  won't  be  afraid  to  talk  of 
their  grandfather.     I  know  it's  a  very  bold  thought, 
sir,  but  if  I  could ' 

*  Speak,  Mr.  Wigmore,'  cried  Topham,  quivering  with 
curiosity,  '  speak  more  plainly.      What  do  you  wish  to 
become  ?     With  competent  help — of  course,  with  com- 
petent help — anything  is  possible.' 

'  Really  ? '  exclaimed  the  other.  *  You  mean  that, 
Mr.  Starkey  ?  Then,  sir ' — he  leaned  forward,  blushing, 
trembling,  gasping — ( could  I  get  to  be — a  curate  ?  ' 

Topham  fell  back  into  his  chair.  For  two  or  three 
minutes  he  was  mute  with  astonishment ;  then  the  very 
soul  of  him  sang  jubilee. 

'  My  dear  Mr.  Wigmore,'  he  began,  restraining  him- 
self to  an  impressive  gravity.  *  I  should  be  the  last  man 
to  speak  lightly  of  the  profession  of  a  clergyman  or  to 
urge  any  one  to  enter  the  Church  whom  I  thought  un- 
fitted for  the  sacred  office.  But  in  your  case,  my  good 
sir,  there  can  be  no  such  misgiving.  I  entertain  no 
doubt  whatever  of  your  fitness — your  moral  fitness,  and 
I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  with  competent  aid  you 
might,  in  no  very  long  time,  be  prepared  for  the  neces- 
sary examination.' 

The  listener  laughed  with  delight.  He  began  to  talk 
rapidly,  all  diffidence  subdued.  He  told  how  the  idea  had 
first  come  to  him,  how  he  had  brooded  upon  it,  how  he 
had  worked  at  elementary  lesson-books,  very  secretly — 
then  how  the  sight  of  Starkey's  advertisement  had 
inspired  him  with  hope. 

4  Just  to  get  to  be  a  curate — that 's  all.     I  should 


TOPHAM'S  CHANCE  237 

never  be  worthy  of  being  a  vicar  or  a  rector.  I  don't 
look  so  high  as  that,  Mr.  Starkey.  But  a  curate  is  a 
clergyman,  and  for  my  daughters  to  be  able  to  say  their 
father  is  in  the  Church — that  would  be  a  good  thing,  sir, 
a  good  thing  ! ' 

He  slapped  his  knee,  and  again  laughed  with  joy. 
Meanwhile  Topham  seemed  to  have  become  pensive,  his 
head  was  on  his  hand. 

*  Oh,'  he  murmured  at  length,  *  if  I  had  time  to  work 
seriously  with  you,  several  hours  a  day.' 

Wigmore  looked  at  him,  and  let  his  eyes  fall :  *  You  are, 
of  course,  very  busy,  Mr.  Starkey  ! ' 

<  Very  busy.' 

Topham  waved  his  hand  at  the  paper-covered  table, 
and  appeared  to  sink  into  despondency.  Thereupon 
Wigmore  cautiously  and  delicately  approached  the  next 
thought  he  had  in  mind,  Topham — cunning  fellow — at 
one  moment  facilitating,  at  another  retarding  what  he 
wished  to  say.  It  came  out  at  last.  Would  it  be  quite 
impossible  for  Mr.  Starkey  to  devote  himself  to  one  sole 
pupil. 

CHAPTER  IV 

*  Mr.  Wigmore,  I  will  be  frank  with  you.     If  I  asked 
an  equivalent  for  the  value  of  my  business  as  a  business, 
I  could  not  expect  you  to  agree   to  such  a  proposal. 
But,  to  speak  honestly,  my  health  has  suffered  a  good 
deal  from  overwork,  and  I  must  take  into  consideration 
the  great  probability  that  in  any  case,  before  long,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  find  some  position  where  the  duties 
were  less  exhausting.' 

*  Good  gracious  ! '  exclaimed  the  listener.  *  Why,  you  '11 


238  TOPHAM'S  CHANCE 

kill  yoursel,  sir.  And  I  'm  bound  to  say,  you  look  far 
from  well.' 

Topham  smiled  pathetically,  paused  a  moment  as  if 
to  reflect,  and  continued  in  the  same  tone  of  genial  con- 
fidence. Let  us  consider  the  matter  in  detail.  Do  you 
propose,  Mr.  Wigmore,  to  withdraw  from  business  at 
once  ? ' 

The  fruiterer  replied  that  he  could  do  so  at  very  short 
notice.  Questioned  as  to  his  wishes  regarding  a  place 
of  residence,  he  declared  that  he  was  ready  to  live  in  any 
place  where,  being  unknown,  he  could  make,  as  it  were, 
a  new  beginning. 

c  You  would  not  feel  impatient,'  said  Topham, '  if,  say, 
two  or  three  years  had  to  elapse  before  you  could  be 
ordained  ? ' 

'  Impatient,1  said  the  other  cheerily.  '  Why,  if  it  took 
ten  years  I  would  go  through  with  it.  When  I  make  up 
my  mind  about  a  thing,  I  'm  not  easily  dismayed.  If  I 
could  have  your  help,  sir ' 

The  necessity  of  making  a  definite  proposal  turned 
Topham  pale ;  he  was  so  afraid  of  asking  too  much. 
Almost  in  spite  of  himself,  he  at  length  spoke.  '  Suppose 
we  say — if  I  reside  with  you — that  you  pay  me  a  salary 
of,  well,  £%00  a  year  ? ' 

The  next  moment  he  inwardly  raged.  Wigmore's 
countenance  expressed  such  contentment,  that  it  was 
plain  the  good  man  would  have  paid  twice  that  sum. 

'  Ass  ! '  cried  Topham,  in  his  mind.  '  I  always  under- 
value myself.' 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Starkey  came  home ;  to 
his  surprise  he  found  that  Topham  was  later  still.  In 
vain  he  sat  writing  until  past  one  o'clock.  Topham  did 


TOPHAIVTS  CHANCE  239 

not  appear,  and  indeed  never  came  back  at  all.  The  over- 
worked corresponding  tutor  was  taking  his  ease  at  the 
seaside  on  the  strength  of  a  quarter's  salary  in  advance, 
which  Mr.  Wigmore,  tremulously  anxious  to  clinch  their 
bargain,  had  insisted  on  paying  him.  Before  leaving 
London  he  had  written  to  Starkey,  apologising  for  his 
abrupt  departure,  *  The  result  of  unforeseen  circum- 
stances.' He  enclosed  six  penny  stamps  in  repayment  of 
a  sum  lent,  and  added — 

*  When  I  think  of  my  great  debt  to  you  I  despair 
of  expressing  my  gratitude.     Be  assured,  however,  that 
the  name    of  Starkey  will  always  be  cherished  in  my 
remembrance.' 

Under  that  name  Topham  dwelt  with  the  retired 
shopkeeper,  and  assiduously  discharged  his  tutorial 
duties.  A  day  came  when,  relying  upon  the  friendship 
between  them,  and  his  pupil's  exultation  in  the  progress 
achieved,  the  tutor  unbosomed  himself.  Having  heard 
the  whole  story,  Wigmore  laughed  a  great  deal,  and  de- 
clared that  such  a  fellow  as  Starkey  was  rightly  served. 

*  But,'  he  inquired,  after  reflection,  '  how  was  it   the 
man  never  wrote  to  ask  why  I  sent  no  more  work  ? ' 

*  That  asks  for  further  confession.     While  at  the  sea- 
side I  wrote,  in  a  disguised  hand,  a  letter  supposed  to 
come  from  a  brother  of  yours  in  which  I  said  you  were 
very  ill  and  must  cease   your  correspondence.     Starkey 
hadn't  the  decency  to  reply,  but  if   he  had    done  so  I 
should  have  got  his  letter  at  the  post-office.' 

Mr.  Wigmore  looked  troubled  for  a  moment.  How- 
ever, this  too  was  laughed  away,  and  the  pursuit  of 
gentility  went  on  as  rigorously  as  ever. 

But  Topham,  musing  over  his  good  luck,  thought  with 
a  shiver  on  how  small  an  accident  it  had  depended. 


240  TOPHATVTS  CHANCE 

Had  Starkey  been  at  home  when  the  fruiterer  called,  he, 
it  was  plain,  would  have  had  the  offer  of  this  engage- 
ment. 

*  With  the  result  that  dear  old  Wigmore  would  have 
been  bled  for  who  knows  how  many  years  by  a  mere 
swindler.  Whereas  he  is  really  being  educated,  and, 
for  all  I  know,  may  some  day  adorn  the  Church  of 
England.'  Such  thoughts  are  very  consoling. 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

HARVEY  MUNDEN  had  settled  himself  in  a  corner  of  the 
club  smoking-room,  with  a  cigar  and  a  review.  At 
eleven  o'clock  on  a  Saturday  morning  in  August  he 
might  reasonably  expect  to  be  undisturbed.  But  behold, 
there  entered  a  bore,  a  long-faced  man  with  a  yellow 
waistcoat,  much  dreaded  by  all  the  members  ;  he  stood 
a  while  at  one  of  the  tables,  fingering  newspapers  and 
eyeing  the  solitary.  Harvey  heard  a  step,  looked  up, 
and  shuddered. 

The  bore  began  his  attack  in  form  ;  Harvey  parried 
with  as  much  resolution  as  his  kindly  nature  permitted. 

*  You  know  that  Dr.  Shergold  is  dying  ? '  fell  casually 
from  the  imperturbable  man. 

« Dying  ? ' 

Munden  was  startled  into  attention,  and  the  full  flow 
of  gossip  swept  about  him.  Yes,  the  great  Dr.  Shergold 
lay  dying ;  there  were  bulletins  in  the  morning  papers ; 
it  seemed  unlikely  that  he  would  see  another  dawn. 

*  Who  will  benefit  by  his  decease  ? '  inquired  the  bore. 
'  His  nephew,  do  you  think  ? ' 

'Very  possibly.' 

*A  remarkable  man,  that — a  most  remarkable  man. 
He  was  at  Lady  Teasdale's  the  other  evening,  and  he 
talked  a  good  deal.  Upon  my  word,  it  reminded  one  of 
Coleridge,  or  Macaulay, — that  kind  of  thing.  Certainly 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

most  brilliant  talk.  I  can't  remember  what  it  was  all 
about — something  literary.  A  sort  of  fantasia,  don't 
you  know.  Wonderful  eloquence.  By  the  bye,  I  believe 
he  is  a  great  friend  of  yours  ? ' 

'  Oh,  we  have  known  each  other  for  a  long  time.1 

4  Somebody  was  saying  that  he  had  gone  in  for  medi- 
cine— walking  one  of  the  hospitals — that  kind  of  thing.1 

<  Yes,  he 's  at  Guy's.1 

To  avoid  infinite  questioning,  Harvey  flung  aside  his 
review  and  went  to  glance  at  the  Times.  He  read  the 
news  concerning  the  great  physician.  Then,  as  his  pur- 
suer drew  near  again,  he  hastily  departed. 

By  midday  he  was  at  London  Bridge.  He  crossed  to 
the  Surrey  side,  turned  immediately  to  the  left,  and  at 
a  short  distance  entered  one  of  the  vaulted  thorough- 
fares which  run  beneath  London  Bridge  Station.  It 
was  like  the  mouth  of  some  monstrous  cavern.  Out  of 
glaring  daylight  he  passed  into  gloom  and  chill  air ;  on 
either  side  of  the  way  a  row  of  suspended  lamps  gave  a 
dull,  yellow  light,  revealing  entrances  to  vast  storehouses, 
most  of  them  occupied  by  wine  merchants ;  an  alcoholic 
smell  prevailed  over  indeterminate  odours  of  dampness. 
There  was  great  concourse  of  drays  and  waggons ; 
wheels  and  the  clang  of  giant  hoofs  made  roaring  echo, 
and  above  thundered  the  trains.  The  vaults,  barely 
illumined  with  gas-jets,  seemed  of  infinite  extent ;  dim 
figures  moved  near  and  far,  amid  huge  barrels,  cases, 
packages ;  in  rooms  partitioned  off  by  glass  framework 
men  sat  writing.  A  curve  in  the  tunnel  made  it  appear 
much  longer  than  it  really  was ;  till  midway  nothing 
could  be  seen  ahead  but  deepening  darkness  ;  then  of  a 
sudden  appeared  the  issue,  and  beyond,  greatly  to  the 
surprise  of  any  one  who  should  have  ventured  hither  for 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  243 

the  first  time,  was  a  vision  of  magnificent  plane-trees, 
golden  in  the  August  sunshine — one  of  the  abrupt  con- 
trasts which  are  so  frequent  in  London,  and  which  make 
its  charm  for  those  who  wander  from  the  beaten  tracks ; 
a  transition  from  the  clangorous  cave  of  commerce  to 
a  sunny  leafy  quietude,  amid  old  houses — some  with 
quaint  tumbling  roofs — and  byways  little  frequented. 

The  planes  grow  at  the  back  of  Guy's  Hospital,  and 
close  by  is  a  short  narrow  street  which  bears  the  name  of 
Maze  Pond.  It  consists  for  the  most  part  of  homely, 
flat-fronted  dwellings,  where  lodgings  are  let  to  medical 
students.  At  one  of  these  houses  Harvey  Munden  plied 
the  knocker. 

He  was  answered  by  a  trim,  rather  pert-looking  girl, 
who  smiled  familiarly. 

'  Mr.  Shergold  isn't  in,  sir,'  she  said  at  once,  antici- 
pating his  question.  '  But  he  will  be  very  soon.  Will 
you  step  in  and  wait  ? ' 

4 1  think  I  will/ 

As  one  who  knew  the  house,  he  went  upstairs,  and 
entered  a  sitting-room  on  the  first  floor.  The  girl 
followed  him. 

*I  haven't  had  time  to  clear  away  the  breakfast 
things,'  she  said,  speaking  rapidly  and  with  an  air. 
'  Mr.  Shergold  was  late  this  mornin' ;  he  didn't  get  up 
till  nearly  ten,  an'  then  he  sat  writin'  letters.  Did  he 
know  as  you  was  comin',  sir  ? ' 

*  No ;  I  looked  in  on  the  chance  of  finding  him,  or 
learning  where  he  was.' 

'  I  'm  sure  he  '11  be  in  about  half-past  twelve,  'cause 
he  said  to  me  as  he  was  only  goin'  to  get  a  breath  of 
air.  He  hasn't  nothing  to  do  at  the  'ospital  just  now.' 

'  Has  he  talked  of  going  away  ?  ' 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

'  Going  away  ? '  The  girl  repeated  the  words  sharply, 
and  examined  the  speaker's  face.  '  Oh, .'  he  won't  be 
goin'  away  just  yet,  I  think.1 

Munden  returned  her  look  with  a  certain  curiosity,  and 
watched  her  as  she  began  to  clink  together  the  things 
upon  the  table.  Obviously  she  esteemed  herselt  a 
person  of  some  importance.  Her  figure  was  not  bad, 
and  her  features  had  the  trivial  prettiness  so  commonly 
seen  in  London  girls  of  the  lower  orders, — the  kind  of 
prettiness  which  ultimately  loses  itself  in  fat  and  chronic 
perspiration.  Her  complexion  already  began  to  show  a 
tendency  to  muddiness,  and  when  her  lips  parted,  they 
showed  decay  of  teeth.  In  dress  she  was  untidy ;  her 
hair  exhibited  a  futile  attempt  at  elaborate  arrange- 
ment ;  she  had  dirty  hands. 

Disposed  to  talk,  she  lingered  as  long  as  possible,  but 
Harvey  Munden  had  no  leanings  to  this  kind  of  colloquy  ; 
when  the  girl  took  herself  off,  he  drew  a  breath  of  satis- 
faction, and  smiled  the  smile  of  an  intellectual  man  who 
has  outlived  youthful  follies. 

He  stepped  over  to  the  lodger's  bookcase.  There  were 
about  a  hundred  volumes,  only  a  handful  of  them  con- 
nected with  medical  study.  Seeing  a  volume  of  his  own 
Munden  took  it  down  and  idly  turned  the  pages ;  it 
surprised  him  to  discover  a  great  many  marginal  notes 
in  pencil,  and  an  examination  of  these  showed  him  that 
Shergold  must  have  gone  carefully  through  the  book  with 
an  eye  to  the  correction  of  its  style  ;  adjectives  were  de- 
leted and  inserted,  words  of  common  usage  removed  for 
others  which  only  a  fine  literary  conscience  could  supply, 
and  in  places  even  the  punctuation  was  minutely  changed. 
Whilst  he  still  pondered  this  singular  manifestation  of 
critical  zeal,  the  door  opened,  and  Shergold  came  in. 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  245 

A  man  of  two-and-thirty,  short,  ungraceful,  ill- 
dressed,  with  features  as  little  commonplace  as  can  be 
imagined.  He  had  somewhat  a  stern  look,  and  on  his 
brow  were  furrows  of  care.  Light-blue  eyes  tended  to 
modify  the  all  but  harshness  of  his  lower  face ;  when  he 
smiled,  as  on  recognising  his  friend,  they  expressed  a 
wonderful  innocence  and  suavity  of  nature ;  overshadowed, 
in  thoughtful  or  troubled  mood,  by  his  heavy  eyebrows, 
they  became  deeply  pathetic.  His  nose  was  short  and 
flat,  yet  somehow  not  ignoble ;  his  full  lips,  bare  of 
moustache,  tended  to  suggest  a  melancholy  fretfulness. 
But  for  the  high  forehead,  no  casual  observer  would  have 
cared  to  look  at  him  a  second  time ;  but  that  upper 
story  made  the  whole  countenance  vivid  with  intellect, 
as  though  a  light  beamed  upon  it  from  above. 

*  You   hypercritical  beggar ! '  cried   Harvey,  tuniing 
with  the  volume  in  his  hand.     '  Is  this  how  you  treat 
the  glorious  works  of  your  contemporaries  ? ' 

Shergold  reddened  and  was  mute. 

*  I  shall  take  this  away  with  me,1  pursued   the  other, 
laughing.      *  It  '11  be  worth  a  little  study.' 

4  My  dear  fellow — you  won't  take  it  ill  of  me — I 
didn't  really  mean  it  as  a  criticism,'  the  deep,  musical 
voice  stammered  in  serious  embarrassment. 

*  Why,  wasn't  it  just  this  kind  of  thing  that  caused  a 
quarrel  between  George  Sand  and  Musset  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  yes ;  but  George  Sand  was  such  a  peremptory 
fellow,  and  Musset  such  a  vapourish  young  person.   Look  ! 
I  '11  show  you  what  I  meant.' 

'  Thanks,"  said  Munden,  *  I  can  find  that  out  for  my- 
self.' He  thrust  the  book  into  his  coat-pocket.  '  I 
came  to  ask  you  if  you  are  aware  of  your  uncle's 
condition.' 


246  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

*  Of  course  I  am. 

*  When  did  you  see  him  last  ? ' 

'  See  him  ? '  Shergold's  eyes  wandered  vaguely.      '  Oh, 
to  talk  with  him,  about  a  month  ago/ 
'  Did  you  part  friendly  ?  ' 

*  On  excellent  terms.     And  last  night  I  went  to  ask 
after  him.     Unfortunately  he  didn't  know  any  one,  but 
the  nurse  said  he  had  been  mentioning  my  name,  and  in 
a  kind  way.' 

'  Capital !  Hadn't  you  better  walk  in  that  direction 
this  afternoon  ? ' 

*  Yes,  perhaps  I  had,  and  yet,  you  know,  I  hate  to 
have  it  supposed  that  I  am  hovering  about  him.' 

'  All  the  same,  go.' 

Shergold  pointed  to  a  chair.  *  Sit  down  a  bit.  I 
have  been  having  a  talk  with  Dr.  Salmon.  He  dis- 
courages me  a  good  deal.  You  know  it's  far  from 
certain  that  I  shall  go  on  with  medicine.' 

'  Far  from  certain  ! '  the  other  assented,  smiling.  *  By 
the  bye,  I  hear  that  you  have  been  in  the  world  of  late. 
You  were  at  Lady  Teasdale's  not  long  ago.' 

*  Well — yes — why  not  ? ' 

Perhaps  it  was  partly  his  vexation  at  the  book 
incident, — Shergold  seemed  unable  to  fix  his  thoughts 
on  anything ;  he  shuffled  in  his  seat  and  kept  glancing 
nervously  towards  the  door. 

'  I  was  delighted  to  hear  it,'  said  his  friend.  *  That 's 
a  symptom  of  health.  Go  everywhere  ;  see  everybody — 
that 's  worth  seeing.  They  got  you  to  talk,  I  believe  ? ' 

'  Who  has  been  telling  you  ?  I  'm  afraid  I  talked 
a  lot  of  rubbish ;  I  had  shivers  of  shame  all  through  a 
sleepless  night  after  it.  But  some  one  brought  up 
Whistler,  and  etching,  and  so  on,  and  I  had  a  few  ideas 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  247 

of  which  I  wanted  to  relieve  my  mind.  And,  after  all, 
there's  a  pleasure  in  talking  to  intelligent  people. 
Henry  Wilt  was  there  with  his  daughters.  Clever  girls, 
by  Jove  !  And  Mrs.  Peter  Rayne — do  you  know  her  ?  ' 

*  Know  of  her,  that 's  all.1 

'  A  splendid  woman — brains,  brains !  Upon  my  soul, 
I  know  no  such  delight  as  listening  to  a  really  intel- 
lectual woman,  when  she's  also  beautiful.  I  shake  with 
delight — and  what  women  one  does  meet,  nowadays  ! 
Of  course  the  world  never  saw  their  like.  I  have  my 
idea  of  Aspasia — but  there  are  lots  of  grander  women 
in  London  to-day.  One  ought  to  live  among  the  rich. 
What  a  wretched  mistake,  when  one  can  help  it,  to  herd 
with  narrow  foreheads,  however  laudable  your  motive  ! 
Since  I  got  back  among  the  better  people  my  life  has 
bf  jn  trebled — oh,  centupled — in  value! ' 

*  My  boy,'  remarked  Munden  quietly,  *  didn't  I  say 
something  to  this  effect  on  a  certain  day  nine  years  ago  ? ' 

*  Don't  talk  of  it,'  the  other  replied,  waving  his  hand 
in  agitation.     '  We'll  never  look  back  at  that.' 

'  Your  room  is  stuffy,'  said  Munden,  rising.  *  Let  us 
go  and  have  lunch  somewhere.' 

*  Yes,  we  will !     Just  a  moment  to  wash  my  hands — 
I've  been  in  the  dissecting-room.' 

The  friends  went  downstairs.  At  the  foot  they 
passed  the  landlady's  daughter :  she  drew  back,  but,  as 
Shergold  allowed  his  companion  to  pass  into  the  street, 
her  voice  made  itself  heard  behind  him. 

*  Shall  you  want  tea,  Mr.  Shergold  ? ' 

Munden  turned  sharply  and  looked  at  the  girl.  Sher- 
gold did  not  look  at  her,  but  he  delayed  for  a  moment 
and  appeared  to  balance  the  question.  Then,  in  a 
friendly  voice,  he  said — 


248  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

'  No,  thank  you.  I  may  not  be  back  till  late  in  the 
evening.1  And  he  went  on  hurriedly. 

'  Cheeky  little  beggar  that,'  Munden  observed,  with  a 
glance  at  his  friend. 

*  Oh,  not  a  bad  girl  in  her  way.  They  've  made  me 
very  comfortable.  All  the  same,  I  shan't  grieve  when 
the  day  of  departure  comes.' 

It  was  not  cheerful,  the  life-story  of  Henry  Shergold. 
At  two-and-twenty  he  found  himself  launched  upon  the 
world,  with  a  university  education  incomplete  and  about 
forty  pounds  in  his  pocket.  A  little  management,  a 
little  less  of  boyish  pride,  and  he  might  have  found  the 
means  to  go  forward  to  his  degree,  with  pleasant  hopes 
in  the  background ;  but  Henry  was  a  Radical,  a  scorner 
of  privilege,  a  believer  in  human  perfectibility.  He  got 
a  place  in  an  office,  and  he  began  to  write  poetry — 
some  of  which  was  published  and  duly  left  unpaid  for. 
A  year  later  there  came  one  fateful  day  when  he 
announced  to  his  friend  Harvey  Munden  that  he  was 
going  to  be  married.  His  chosen  bride  was  the  daughter 
of  a  journeyman  tailor — a  tall,  pale,  unhealthy  girl 
of  eighteen,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  at  a 
tobacconist's  shop,  where  she  served.  He  was  going  to 
marry  her  on  principle — principle  informed  with  callow 
passion,  the  passion  of  a  youth  who  has  lived  demurely, 
more  among  books  than  men.  Harvey  Munden  flew 
into  a  rage,  and  called  upon  the  gods  in  protest. 
But  Shergold  was  not  to  be  shaken.  The  girl,  he 
declared,  had  fallen  in  love  with  him  during  conversa- 
tions across  the  counter ;  her  happiness  was  in  his 
hands,  and  he  would  not  betray  it.  She  had  excellent 
dispositions ;  he  would  educate  her.  The  friends 
quarrelled  about  it,  and  Shergold  led  home  his  bride. 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  249 

With  the  results  which  any  sane  person  could  have 
foretold.  The  marriage  was  a  hideous  disaster  ;  in  three 
years  it  brought  Shergold  to  an  attempted  suicide,  for 
which  he  had  to  appear  at  the  police-court.  His 
relative,  the  distinguished  doctor,  who  had  hitherto  done 
nothing  for  him.  now  came  forward  with  counsel  and 
assistance.  Happilvthe  only  child  of  the  union  had  died 
at  a  few  weeks  old,  and  the  wife,  though  making  noisy 
proclamation  of  rights,  was  so  weary  of  her  husband 
that  she  consented  to  a  separation. 

But  in  less  than  a  year  the  two  were  living  together 
again ;  Mrs.  Shergold  had  been  led  by  her  relatives  to 
believe  that  some  day  the  poor  fellow  would  have  his 
uncle's  money,  and  her  wiles  ultimately  overcame  Sher- 
gold's resistance.  He,  now  studying  law  at  the  doctor's 
expense,  found  himself  once  more  abandoned,  and  re- 
duced to  get  his  living  as  a  solicitor's  clerk.  His  uncle 
had  bidden  him  good-bye  on  a  postcard,  whereon  was 
illegibly  scribbled  something  about  '  damned  fools.' 

He  bore  the  burden  for  three  more  years,  then  his 
wife  died.  One  night,  after  screaming  herself  speechless 
in  fury  at  Shergold's  refusal  to  go  with  her  to  a  music- 
hall,  she  had  a  fit  on  the  stairs,  and  in  falling  received 
fatal  injuries. 

The  man  was  free,  but  terribly  shattered.  Only  after 
a  long  sojourn  abroad,  at  his  kinsman's  expense,  did  he 
begin  to  recover  health.  He  came  back  and  entered 
himself  as  a  student  at  Guy's,  greatly  to  Dr.  Shergold's 
satisfaction.  His  fees  were  paid  and  a  small  sum  was 
allowed  him  to  live  upon — a  very  small  sum.  By  degrees 
some  old  acquaintances  began  to  see  him,  but  it  was  only 
quite  of  late  that  he  had  accepted  invitations  from 
people  of  social  standing,  whom  he  met  at  the  doctor's 


250  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

house.  The  hints  of  his  story  that  got  about  made  him 
an  interesting  figure,  especially  to  women,  and  his  re- 
markable gifts  were  recognised  as  soon  as  circumstances 
began  to  give  him  fair  play.  All  modern  things  were  of 
interest  to  him,  and  his  knowledge,  acquired  with  astonish- 
ing facility,  formed  the  fund  of  talk  which  had  singular 
charm  alike  for  those  who  did  and  those  who  did  not 
understand  it.  Undeniably  shy,  he  yet,  when  warmed 
to  a  subject,  spoke  with  nerve  and  confidence.  In  days 
of  jabber,  more  or  less  impolite,  this  appearance  of  an 
articulate  mortal,  with  soft  manners  and  totally  un- 
affected, could  not  but  excite  curiosity.  Lady  Teas- 
dale,  eager  for  the  uncommon,  chanced  to  observe  him 
one  evening  as  he  conversed  with  his  neighbour  at  the 
dinner-table ;  later,  in  the  drawing-room,  she  encouraged 
him  with  flattery  of  rapt  attention  to  a  display  of  his 
powers ;  she  resolved  to  make  him  a  feature  of  her 
evenings.  Fortunately,  his  kindred  with  Dr.  Shergold 
made  a  respectable  introduction,  and  Lady  Teasdale 
whispered  it  among  matrons  that  he  would  inherit  from 
the  wealthy  doctor,  who  had  neither  wife  nor  child.  He 
might  not  be  fair  to  look  upon,  but  handsome  is  that 
handsome  has. 

And  now  the  doctor  lay  sick  unto  death.  Society 
was  out  of  town,  but  Lady  Teasdale,  with  a  house  full 
of  friends  about  her  down  in  Hampshire,  did  not  forget 
her  protege  ;  she  waited  with  pleasant  expectation  for 
the  young  man's  release  from  poverty. 

It  came  in  a  day  or  two.  Dr.  Shergold  was  dead,  and 
an  enterprising  newspaper  announced  simultaneously  that 
the  bulk  of  his  estate  would  pass  to  Mr.  Henry  Shergold, 
a  gentleman  at  present  studying  for  his  uncle's  profes- 
sion. This  paragraph  caught  the  eye  of  Harvey  Munden. 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  251 

who  sent  a  line  to  his  friend,  to  ask  if  it  was  true.  In 
reply  he  received  a  mere  postcard  :  '  Yes.  Will  see  you 
before  long.'  But  Harvey  wanted  to  be  off  to  Como,  and 
as  business  took  him  into  the  city,  he  crossed  the  river 
and  sought  Maze  Pond.  Again  the  door  was  opened  to 
him  by  the  landlady's  daughter ;  she  stood  looking  keenly 
in  his  face,  her  eyes  smiling  and  yet  suspicious. 

' Mr.  Shergold  in  ?  '  he  asked  carelessly. 

'  No,  he  isn't.'  There  was  a  strange  bluntness  about 
this  answer.  The  girl  stood  forward,  as  if  to  bar  the 
entrance,  and  kept  searching  his  face. 

*  When  is  he  likely  to  be  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know.     He  didn't  say  when  he  went  out.' 
A  woman's  figure  appeared  in  the  background.      The 

girl  turned  and  said  sharply,  *  All  right,  mother,  it 's  only 

somebody  for  Mr.  Shergold/ 

*  I  '11  go  upstairs  and  write  a  note,'  said  Munden,  in  a 
rather  peremptory  voice. 

The  other  drew  back  and  allowed  him  to  pass,  but 
with  evident  disinclination.  As  he  entered  the  room,  he 
saw  that  she  had  followed.  He  went  up  to  a  side- table,  on 
which  lay  a  blotting-book,  with  other  requisites  for  writ- 
ing, and  then  he  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  in  meditation. 

*  Your  name  is  Emma,  isn't  it  ? '  he  inquired,  looking 
at  the  girl  with  a  smile. 

« Yes,  it  is.' 

'  Well  then,  Emma,  shut  the  door,  and  let 's  have  a 
talk.  Your  mother  won't  mind,  will  she  ? '  he  added 
slyly. 

The  girl  tossed  her  head. 

'I  don't  see  what  it's  got  to  do  with  mother.'  She 
closed  the  door,  but  did  not  latch  it.  *  What  do  you 
want  to  talk  about  ? ' 


252  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

'  You  're  a  very  nice  girl  to  look  at,  Emma,  and  I  've 
always  admired  you  when  you  opened  the  door  to  me. 
I  Ve  always  liked  your  nice,  respectful  way  of.  speaking, 
but  somehow  you  don't  speak  quite  so  nicely  to-day. 
What  has  put  you  out  ? ' 

Her  eyes  did  not  quit  his  face  for  a  moment ;  her 
attitude  betokened  the  utmost  keenness  of  suspicious 
observation. 

1  Nothing 's  put  me  out,  that  I  know  of.1 

*  Yet  you  don't  speak  very  nicely — not  very  respect- 
fully.    Perhaps ' — he  paused — '  perhaps  Mr.  Shergold  is 
going  to  leave  ? ' 

*  P'r'aps  he  may  be.' 

'  And  you  're  vexed  at  losing  a  lodger 

He  saw  her  lip  curl  and  then  she  laughed. 

'  You  're  wrong  there.' 

« Then  what  is  it  ?  ' 

He  drew  near  and  made  as  though  he  would  advance 
a  familiar  arm.  Emma  started  back. 

'  All  right,'  she  exclaimed,  with  an  insolent  nod.  *  I  '11 
tell  Mr.  Shergold.' 

'Tell  Mr.  Shergold?  Why?  What  has  it  to  do 
with  him  ? ' 

'  A  good  deal.' 

1  Indeed  ?    For  shame,  Emma  !    I  never  expected  that ! ' 

*  What  do  you  mean  ? '  she  retorted  hotly.    '  You  keep 
your  impudence  to  yourself.      If  you  want  to  know,  Mr. 
Shergold  is  going  to  marry  me — so  there  ! ' 

The  stroke  was  effectual.  Harvey  Munden  stood  as 
if  transfixed,  but  he  recovered  himself  before  a  word 
escaped  his  lips. 

1  Ah,  that  alters  the  case.  I  beg  your  pardon.  You 
won't  make  trouble  between  old  friends  ? ' 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  253 

Vanity  disarmed  the  girl's  misgiving.  She  grinned 
with  satisfaction. 

*  That  depends  how  you  behave.' 

'  Oh,  you  don't  know  me.  But  promise,  now ;  not 
a  word  to  Shergold.' 

She  gave  a  conditional  promise,  and  stood  radiant 
with  her  triumph. 

*  Thanks,  that's  very  good   of  you.     Well,  I  won't 
trouble  to  leave  a  note.     You  shall  just  tell  Shergold 
that  I  am  leaving  England   to-morrow  for  a  holiday. 
I  should  like  to  see  him,  of  course,  and  I  may  possibly 
look  round  this  evening.     If  I  can't  manage  it,  just  tell 
him  that  I  think  he  ought  to  have  given  me  a  chance  of 
congratulating  him.      May  I  ask  when  it  is  to  be  ? ' 

Emma  resumed  an  air  of  prudery,  '  Before  very  long, 
I  dessay.' 

'  I  wish  you  joy.  Well,  I  mustn't  talk  longer  now, 
but  I  '11  do  my  best  to  look  in  this  evening,  and  then  we 
can  all  chat  together.' 

He  laughed  and  she  laughed  back ;  and  thereupon 
they  parted. 

A  little  after  nine  that  evening,  when  only  a  grey 
reflex  of  daylight  lingered  upon  a  cloudy  sky,  Munden 
stood  beneath  the  plane-trees  by  Guy's  Hospital  wait- 
ing. He  had  walked  the  length  of  Maze  Pond  and  had 
ascertained  that  his  friend's  window  as  yet  showed  no 
light ;  Shergold  was  probably  still  from  home.  In 
the  afternoon  he  had  made  inquiry  at  the  house  of 
the  deceased  doctor,  but  of  Henry  nothing  was  known 
there ;  he  left  a  message  for  delivery  if  possible,  to  the 
effect  that  he  would  call  in  at  Maze  Pond  between  nine 
and  ten. 

At  a  quarter  past  the   hour   there   appeared    from 


254  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

the  Direction  of  London  Bridge  a  well-known  figure, 
walking  slowly,  head  bent.  Munden  moved  forward,  and, 
on  seeing  him,  Shergold  grasped  his  hand  feverishly. 

*  Ha  !  how  glad  I  am  to  meet  you,  Munden  !    Come  ; 
let  us  walk  this  way.'     He  turned  from  Maze  Pond.     '  I 
got  your  message  up  yonder  an  hour  or  two  ago.     So 
glad  I  have  met  you  here,  old  fellow.1 

'  Well,  your  day  has  come,'  said  Harvey,  trying  to 
read  his  friend's  features  in  the  gloom. 

'  He  has  left  me  about  eighty  thousand  pounds,1  Sher- 
gold replied,  in  a  low,  shaken  voice.  *  I  'm  told  there 
are  big  legacies  to  hospitals  as  well.  Heavens  !  how  rich 
he  was ! ' 

*  When  is  the  funeral  ?  ' 
<  Friday.1 

'  Where  shall  you  live  in  the  meantime  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know — I  haven^  thought  about  it.' 

1 1  should  go  to  some  hotel,  if  I  were  you,'  said 
Munden,  'and  I  have  a  proposal  to  make.  If  I  wait 
till  Saturday,  will  you  come  with  me  to  Como  ? ' 

Shergold  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  was  walking 
hurriedly,  and  making  rather  strange  movements  with 
his  head  and  arms.  They  came  into  the  shadow  of  the 
vaulted  way  beneath  London  Bridge  Station.  At  this 
hour  the  great  tunnel  was  quiet,  save  when  a  train  roared 
above ;  the  warehouses  were  closed ;  one  or  two  idlers, 
of  forbidding  aspect,  hung  about  in  the  murky  gas- 
light, and  from  the  far  end  came  a  sound  of  children 
at  play. 

*  You  won^  be  wanted  here  ? 1  Munden  added. 

'No — no — I  think  not.'  There  was  agitation  in 
the  voice. 

*  Then  you  will  come  ? ' 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  255 

4  Yes,  I  will  come.'  Shergold  spoke  with  unnecessary 
vehemence  and  laughed  oddly. 

*  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ? '  his  friend  asked. 
'Nothing — the  change  of  circumstances,  I  suppose. 

Let's  get  on.  Let  us  go  somewhere — I  can't  help  re- 
proaching myself;  I  ought  to  feel  or  show  a  decent 
sobriety ;  but  what  was  the  old  fellow  to  me  ?  I  'm 
grateful  to  him.' 

'  There 's  nothing  else  on  your  mind  ? ' 

Shergold  looked  up,  startled. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?     Why  do  you  ask  ? ' 

They  stood  together  in  the  black  shadow  of  an  interval 
between  two  lamps.  After  reflecting  for  a  moment, 
Munden  decided  to  speak. 

'  I  called  at  your  lodgings  early  to-day,  and  somehow 
I  got  into  talk  with  the  girl.  She  was  cheeky,  and  her 
behaviour  puzzled  me.  Finally  she  made  an  incredible 
announcement — that  you  had  asked  her  to  marry  you. 
Of  course  it 's  a  lie  ? ' 

'  To  marry  her  ? '  exclaimed  the  listener  hoarsely,  with 
an  attempt  at  laughter.  '  Do  you  think  that  likely — 
after  all  I  have  gone  through  ? ' 

'No,  I  certainly  don't.  It  staggered  me.  But  what 
I  want  to  know  is,  can  she  cause  trouble  ? ' 

'  How  do  I  know  ? — a  girl  will  lie  so  boldly.  She 
might  make  a  scandal,  I  suppose ;  or  threaten  it,  in  hope 
of  getting  money  out  of  me.' 

'  But  is  there  any  ground  for  a  scandal  ?  '  demanded 
Harvey. 

'  Not  the  slightest,  as  you  mean  it.' 

*  I  'm  glad  to  hear  that.    But  she  may  give  you  trouble. 
I  see  the  thing  doesn't  astonish  you  very  much  ;  no  doubt 
you  were  aware  of  her  character.' 


256  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

*  Yes,  yes  ,  T  know  it  pretty  well.     Come,  let  us  get 
out  of  this  squalid  inferno  ;  how  I  hate  it !      Have  you 
had  dinner  ?     I  don't  want  any.      Let  us  go  to  your 
rooms,  shall  we?     There'll  be  a  hansom  passing  the 
bridge.' 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  and  when  they  had  found  a 
cab  they  drove  westward,  talking  only  of  Dr.  Shergold's 
affairs.  Munden  lived  in  the  region  of  the  Squares, 
hard  by  the  British  Museum  ;  he  took  his  friend  into  a 
comfortably  furnished  room,  the  walls  hidden  with  books 
and  prints,  and  there  they  sat  down  to  smoke,  a  bottle 
of  whisky  within  easy  reach  of  both.  It  was  plain  to 
Harvey  that  some  mystery  lay  in  his  friend's  reserve  on 
the  subject  of  the  girl  Emma ;  he  was  still  anxious, 
but  would  not  lead  the  talk  to  unpleasant  things.  Sher- 
gold  drank  like  a  thirsty  man,  and  the  whisky  seemed  to 
make  him  silent.  Presently  he  fell  into  absolute  mute- 
ness, and  lay  wearily  back  in  his  chair. 

'  The  excitement  has  been  too  much  for  you,'  Munden 
remarked. 

Shergold  looked  at  him,  with  a  painful  embarrassment 
in  his  features  ;  then  suddenly  he  bent  forward. 

'  Munden,  it 's  I  who  have  lied.  I  did  ask  that  girl 
to  marry  me.' 

'  When  ? ' 

*  Last  night.' 
«  Why  ? ' 

'  Because  for  a  moment  I  was  insane.'  They  stared 
at  each  other. 

'  Has  she  any  hold  upon  you  ? '  Munden  asked 
slowly. 

*  None  whatever,  except  this  frantic  offer  of  mine.' 

*  Into  which  she  inveigled  you  ? ' 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  257 

*  I  can't  honestly  say  she  did  ;  it  was  entirely  my  own 
fault.  She  has  never  behaved  loosely,  or  even  like  a 
schemer.  I  doubt  whether  she  knew  anything  about  my 
uncle,  until  I  told  her  last  night.' 

He  spoke  rapidly,  in  a  thick  voice,  moving  his  arms  in 
helpless  protestation.  His  look  was  one  of  unutterable 
misery. 

'Well,'  observed  Munden,  'the  frenzy  has  at  all 
events  passed.  You  have  the  common-sense  to  treat  it 
as  if  it  had  never  been  ;  and  really  I  am  tempted  to 
believe  that  it  was  literal  lunacy.  Last  night  were  you 
drunk  ? ' 

'  I  had  drunk  nothing.  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it.  I  am  a  fool  about  women.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is — certainly  not  a  sensual  or  passionate  nature ; 
mine  is  nothing  of  the  sort.  It's  sheer  sentimentality, 
I  suppose.  I  can't  be  friendly  with  a  woman  without 
drifting  into  mawkish  tenderness — there's  the  simple 
truth.  If  I  had  married  happily,  I  don't  think  I  should 
have  been  tempted  to  go  about  philandering.  The 
society  of  a  wife  I  loved  and  respected  would  be  suffi- 
cient. But  there's  that  need  in  me — the  incessant 
hunger  for  a  woman's  sympathy  and  affection.  Such 
a  hideous  mistake  as  mine  when  I  married  would  have 
made  a  cynic  of  most  men ;  upon  me  the  lesson  has  been 
utterly  thrown  away.  I  mean  that,  though  I  can  talk 
of  women  rationally  enough  with  a  friend,  I  am  at  their 
mercy  when  alone  with  them — at  the  mercy  of  the 
silliest,  vulgarest  creature.  After  all,  isn't  it  very  much 
the  same  with  men  in  general  ?  The  average  man — how 
does  he  come  to  marry  ?  Do  you  think  he  deliberately 
selects  ?  Does  he  fall  in  love,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
phrase,  with  that  one  particular  girl  ?  No ;  it  comes 


258  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

about  by  chance — by  the  drifting  force  of  circumstances. 
Not  one  man  in  ten  thousand,  when  he  thinks  of  marriage, 
waits  for  the  ideal  wife — for  the  woman  who  makes 
capture  of  his  soul  or  even  of  his  senses.  Men  marry 
without  passion.  Most  of  us  have  a  very  small  circle 
for  choice ;  the  hazard  of  everyday  life  throws  us  into 
contact  with  this  girl  or  that,  and  presently  we  begin  to 
feel  either  that  we  have  compromised  ourselves,  or  that 
we  might  as  well  save  trouble  and  settle  down  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  the  girl  at  hand  will  do  as  well  as  another. 
More  often  than  not  it  is  the  girl  who  decides  for  us. 
In  more  than  half  the  marriages  it 's  the  woman  who  has 
practically  proposed.  She  puts  herself  in  a  man's  way. 
With  her  it  rests  almost  entirely  whether  a  man  shall 
think  of  her  as  a  possible  wife  or  not.  She  has  endless 
ways  of  putting  herself  forward  without  seeming  to  do 
so.  As  often  as  not,  it 's  mere  passivity  that  effects  the 
end.  She  has  only  to  remain  seated  instead  of  moving 
away ;  to  listen  with  a  smile  instead  of  looking  bored  ; 
to  be  at  home  instead  of  being  out, — and  she  is  mak- 
ing love  to  a  man.  In  a  Palace  of  Truth  how  many 
husbands  would  have  to  confess  that  it  decidedly  sur- 
prised them  when  they  found  themselves  engaged  to  be 
married  ?  The  will  comes  into  play  only  for  a  moment 
or  two  now  and  then.  Of  course  it  is  made  to  seem  re- 
sponsible, and  in  a  sense  it  is  responsible,  but,  in  the 
vast  majority  of  cases,  purely  as  an  animal  instinct,  con- 
firming the  suggestion  of  circumstances.1 

*  There 's  something  in  all  this,"1  granted  the  listener, 
*but  it  doesn't  explain  the  behaviour  of  a  man  who, 
after  frightful  experience  in  marriage — after  recovering 
his  freedom — after  finding  himself  welcomed  by  congenial 
society — after  inheriting  a  fortune  to  use  as  he  likes — 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  259 

goes  and  offers  himself  to  an  artful  hussy  in  a  lodging- 
house.' 

'  That 's  the  special  case.  Look  how  it  came  to  pass. 
Months  ago  I  knew  I  was  drifting  into  dangerous  rela- 
tions with  that  girl.  Unfortunately  I  am  not  a  rascal : 
I  can't  think  of  girls  as  playthings ;  a  fatal  conscien- 
tiousness in  an  unmarried  man  of  no  means.  Day  after 
day  we  grew  more  familiar.  She  used  to  come  up 
and  ask  me  if  I  wanted  anything ;  and  of  course  I  knew 
that  she  began  to  come  more  often  than  necessary. 
When  she  laid  a  meal  for  me,  we  talked — half  an  hour 
at  a  time.  The  mother,  doubtless,  looked  on  with 
approval ;  Emma  had  to  find  a  husband,  and  why  not 
me  as  well  as  another  ?  They  knew  I  was  a  soft  creature 
— that  I  never  made  a  row  about  anything — was  grate- 
ful for  anything  that  looked  like  kindness — and  so  on. 
Just  the  kind  of  man  to  be  captured.  But  no — I  don't 
want  to  make  out  that  I  am  their  victim  ;  that 's  a  feeble 
excuse,  and  a  worthless  one.  The  average  man  would 
either  have  treated  the  girl  as  a  servant,  and  so  kept 
her  at  her  distance,  or  else  he  would  have  alarmed  her 
by  behaviour  which  suggested  anything  you  like  but 
marriage.  As  for  me,  I  hadn't  the  common-sense  to 
take  either  of  these  courses.  I  made  a  friend  of  the 
girl ;  talked  to  her  more  and  more  confidentially ;  and 
at  last — fatal  moment — told  her  my  history.  Yes,  I 
was  ass  enough  to  tell  that  girl  the  whole  story  of  my 
life.  Can  you  conceive  such  folly  ? 

*  Yet  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  understand. 
We  were  alone  in  the  house  one  evening.  After  trying 
to  work  for  about  an  hour  I  gave  it  up.  I  knew  that 
the  mother  was  out,  and  I  heard  Emma  moving  down- 
stairs. I  was  lonely  and  dispirited — wanted  to  talk — 


260  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

to  talk  about  myself  to  some  one  who  would  give  a  kind 
ear.  So  I  went  down,  and  made  some  excuse  for  begin- 
ning a  conversation  in  the  parlour.  It  lasted  a  couple 
of  hours  ;  we  were  still  talking  when  the  mother  came 
back.  I  didn't  persuade  myself  that  I  cared  for  Emma, 
even  then.  Her  vulgarisms  of  speech  and  feeling  jarred 
upon  me.  But  she  was  feminine  ;  she  spoke  and  looked 
gently,  with  sympathy.  I  enjoyed  that  evening — and 
you  must  bear  in  mind  what  I  have  told  you  before, 
that  I  stand  in  awe  of  refined  women.  I  am  their 
equal,  I  know  ;  I  can  talk  with  them  ;  their  society  is  an 
exquisite  delight  to  me ; — but  when  it  comes  to  thinking 

of  intimacy  with  one  of  them !  Perhaps  it  is  my 

long  years  of  squalid  existence.  Perhaps  I  have  come  to 
regard  myself  as  doomed  to  life  on  a  lower  level.  I 
find  it  an  impossible  thing  to  imagine  myself  offering 
marriage — making  love — to  a  girl  such  as  those  I  meet 
in  the  big  houses.1 

*  You  will  outgrow  that,1  said  Munden. 

1  Yes,  yes, — I  hope  and  believe  so.  And  wouldn't  it 
be  criminal  to  deny  myself  even  the  chance,  now  that 
I  have  money  ?  All  to-day  I  have  been  tortured  like  a 
soul  that  beholds  its  salvation  lost  by  a  moment's  weak- 
ness of  the  flesh.  You  can  imagine  what  my  suffering 
has  been  ;  it  drove  me  into  sheer  lying.  I  had  resolved 
to  deny  utterly  that  I  had  asked  Emma  to  marry 
me — to  deny  it  with  a  savage  boldness,  and  take  the 
consequences.' 

'  A  most  rational  resolve,  my  dear  fellow.  Pray 
stick  to  it.  But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  how  the  dizzy 
culmination  of  your  madness  was  reached.  You  say 
that  you  proposed  last  night  ? 1 

'  Yes — and  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  telling  Emma 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  261 

when  she  had  accepted  me,  that  I  had  eighty  thousand 
pounds  !  You  can't  understand  that  ?  I  suppose  the 
change  of  fortune  has  made  me  a  little  light-headed ;  I 
have  been  going  about  with  a  sense  of  exaltation  which 
has  prompted  me  to  endless  follies.  I  have  felt  a  desire 
to  be  kind  to  people — to  bestow  happiness — to  share  my 
joy  with  others.  If  I  had  some  of  the  doctor's  money 
in  my  pocket,  I  should  have  given  away  five-pound 
notes.' 

'You  contented  yourself,'  said  Munden,  laughing, 
*  with  giving  a  promissory-note  for  the  whole  legacy.' 

*  Yes  ;  but  try  to  understand.  Emma  came  up  to  my 
room  at  supper-time,  and  as  usual  we  talked.  I  didn't 
say  anything  about  my  uncle's  death — yet  I  felt  the 
necessity  of  telling  her  creep  fatally  upon  me.  There 
was  a  conflict  in  my  mind,  between  common-sense  and 
that  awful  sentimentality  which  is  my  curse.  When 
Emma  came  up  again  after  supper,  she  mentioned  that 
her  mother  was  gone  with  a  friend  to  a  theatre.  "  Why 
don't  you  go  ?  "  I  said.  "  Oh,  I  don't  go  anywhere." 
"  But  after  all,"  I  urged  consolingly, "  August  isn't  exactly 
the  time  for  enjoying  the  theatre."  She  admitted  it 
wasn't ;  but  there  was  the  Exhibition  at  Earl's  Court, 
she  had  heard  so  much  of  it,  and  wanted  to  go.  "  Then 
suppose  we  go  together  one  of  these  evenings  ?  " 

«  You  see  ?  Idiot ! — and  I  couldn't  help  it.  My 
tongue  spoke  these  imbecile  words  in  spite  of  my  brain, 
All  very  well,  if  I  had  meant  what  another  man  would ; 
but  I  didn't,  and  the  girl  knew  I  didn't.  And  she 
looked  at  me — and  then — why,  mere  brute  instinct  did 
the  rest — no,  not  mere  instinct,  for  it  was  complicated 
with  that  idiot  desire  to  see  how  the  girl  would  look, 
hear  what  she  would  say,  when  she  knew  that  I  had 


262  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

given  her  eighty  thousand  pounds.      You  can't  under- 
stand ? ' 

'  As  a  bit  of  morbid  psychology — yes.' 

*  And  the  frantic  proceeding  made  me  happy  !    For  an 
hour  or  two  I  behaved  as  if  I  loved  the  girl  with  all  my 
soul.      And  afterwards  I  was  still  happy.      I  walked  up 
and  down  my  bedroom,  making  plans  for  the  future — 
for  her  education,  and  so  on.     I  saw  all  sorts  of  admir- 
able womanly  qualities  in  her.     I  was  in  love  with  her, 
and  there 's  an  end  of  it  ! ' 

Munden  mused  for  a  while,  then  laid  down  his  pipe. 

*  Remarkably  suggestive,  Shergold,  the  name  of  the 
street  in  which  you  have  been  living.     Well,  you  don't 
go  back  there  ? ' 

1  No.  I  have  come  to  my  senses.  I  shall  go  to  an 
hotel  for  to-night,  and  send  presently  for  all  my  things.1 

*  To  be  sure,  and  on  Saturday — or  on  Friday  evening, 
if  you  like,  we  leave  England.1 

It  was  evident  that  Shergold  rejoiced  with  trembling. 

'  But  I  can't  stick  to  the  lie.'  he  said.  *  I  shall  com- 
pensate the  girl.  You  see,  by  running  away  I  make 
confession  that  there 's  something  wrong.  I  shall  see  a 
solicitor  and  put  the  matter  into  his  hands.' 

'  As  you  please.  But  let  the  solicitor  exercise  his  own 
discretion  as  to  damages.' 

'  Damages ! '  Shergold  pondered  the  word.  '  I 
suppose  she  won't  drag  me  into  court — make  a  public 
ridicule  of  me  ?  If  so,  there  's  an  end  of  my  hopes.  I 
couldn't  go  among  people  after  that.' 

'  I  don't  see  why  not.  But  your  solicitor  will 
probably  manage  the  affair.  They  have  their  methods,' 
Munden  added  drily. 

Early  the  next  morning  Shergold  despatched  a  tele- 


A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND  263 

gram  to  Maze  Pond,  addressed  to  his  landlady.  It  said 
that  he  would  be  kept  away  by  business  for  a  day  or 
two.  On  Friday  he  attended  his  uncle's  funeral,  and 
that  evening  he  left  Charing  Cross  with  Harvey  Munden, 
en  route  for  Como. 

There,  a  fortnight  later,  Shergold  received  from  his 
solicitor  a  communication  which  put  an  end  to  his  feign- 
ing of  repose  and  hopefulness.  That  he  did  but  feign, 
Harvey  Munden  felt  assured ;  signs  of  a  troubled  con- 
science, or  at  all  events  of  restless  nerves,  were  evident 
in  all  his  doing  and  conversing  ;  now  he  once  more  made 
frank  revelation  of  his  weakness. 

*  There 's  the  devil  to  pay.      She  won't  take  money. 
She 's  got  a  lawyer,  and  is  going  to  bring  me  into  court 
I  've  authorised  Reckitt  to  offer  as  much  as  five  thousand 
pounds, — it 's  no  good.     He  says  her  lawyer  has  evidently 
encouraged  her  to  hope  for  enormous  damages,  and  then 
she  '11  have  the  satisfaction  of  making  me  the  town-talk. 
It 's  all   up  with  me,  Munden.      My  hopes  are  vanished 
like — what  is  it  in  Dante  ? — ilfumo  in  aere  ed  in  aqua  la 
sckiuma ! ' 

Smoking  a  Cavour,  Munden  lay  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  pergola,  and  seemed  to  disdain  reply. 

*  Your  advice ? ' 

*  What's   the  good  of  advising  a  man    born  to  be 
fooled  ?     Why,  let  the do  her  worst ! ' 

Shergold  winced. 

*  We  mustn't  forget  that  it 's  all  my  fault.' 

*  Yes,  just  as  it's  your  own  fault  you  didn't  die  on 
the  day  of  your  birth  ! ' 

*  I  must  raise  the  offer ' 

*  By  all  means ;  offer  ten  thousand.     I  suppose  a  jury 
would  give  her  two  hundred  and  fifty.' 


264  A  LODGER  IN  MAZE  POND 

*  But  the  scandal — the  ridicule ' 

'  Face  it.  Very  likely  it 's  the  only  thing  that  would 
teach  you  wisdom  and  save  your  life.' 

*  That 's  one  way  of  looking  at  it.      I  half  believe  it 
might  be  effectual.1 

He  kept  alone  for  most  of  the  day.  In  the  evening, 
from  nine  to  ten,  he  went  upon  the  lake  with  Harvey, 
but  could  not  talk  ;  his  blue  eyes  were  sunk  in  a  restless 
melancholy,  his  brows  were  furrowed,  he  kept  making 
short,  nervous  movements,  as  though  in  silent  remon- 
strance with  himself.  And  when  the  next  morning 
came,  and  Harvey  Munden  rang  the  bell  for  his  coffee,  a 
waiter  brought  him  a  note  addressed  in  Shergold's  hand. 
'  I  have  started  for  London,'  ran  the  hurriedly  written 
lines.  '  Don't  be  uneasy ;  all  I  mean  to  do  is  to  stop 
the  danger  of  a  degrading  publicity ;  the  fear  of  that  is 
too  much  for  me.  I  have  an  idea,  and  you  shall  hear 
how  I  get  on  in  a  few  days.' 

The  nature  of  that  promising  idea  Munden  never 
learnt.  His  next  letter  from  Shergold  came  in  about 
ten  days  ;  it  informed  him  very  briefly  that  the  writer 
was  '  about  to  be  married,'  and  that  in  less  than  a  week 
he  would  have  started  with  his  wife  on  a  voyage  round 
the  world.  Harvey  did  not  reply ;  indeed,  the  letter 
contained  no  address. 

One  day  in  November  he  was  accosted  at  the  club  by 
his  familiar  bore. 

'  So  your  friend  Shergold  is  dead  ? ' 

4  Dead  ?      I  know  nothing  of  it.' 

*  Really?       They  talked    of    it    last  night  at  Lady 
Teasdale's.      He    died   a    few   days    ago,    at    Calcutta. 
Dysentery,  or  something  of  that  kind.      His  wife  cabled 
to  some  one  or  other.' 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

STRONG  and  silent  the  tide  of  Thames  flowed  upward, 
and  over  it  swept  the  morning  tide  of  humanity. 
Through  white  autumnal  mist  yellow  sunbeams  flitted 
from  shore  to  shore.  The  dome,  the  spires,  the  river 
frontages  slowly  unveiled  and  brightened :  there  was 
hope  of  a  fair  day. 

Not  that  it  much  concerned  this  throng  of  men  and 
women  hastening  to  their  labour.  From  near  and  far, 
by  the  league-long  highways  of  South  London,  hither 
they  converged  each  morning,  and  joined  the  procession 
across  the  bridge ;  their  task  was  the  same  to-day  as 
yesterday,  regardless  of  gleam  or  gloom.  Many  had 
walked  such  a  distance  that  they  plodded  wearily,  look- 
ing neither  to  right  nor  left.  The  more  vigorous 
strode  briskly  on,  elbowing  their  way,  or  nimbly  skipping 
into  the  road  to  gain  advance  ;  yet  these  also  had  a  fixed 
gaze,  preoccupied  or  vacant,  seldom  cheerful.  Here  and 
there  a  couple  of  friends  conversed ;  girls,  with  bag  or 
parcel  and  a  book  for  the  dinner  hour,  chattered  and 
laughed  ;  but  for  the  most  part  lips  were  mute  amid  the 
clang  and  roar  of  heavy-laden  wheels. 

It  was  the  march  of  those  who  combat  hunger  with 
delicate  hands :  at  the  pen's  point,  or  from  behind  the 
breastwork  of  a  counter,  or  trusting  to  bare  wits  pressed 
daily  on  the  grindstone.  Their  chief  advantage  over  the 


265 


266  THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

sinewy  class  beneath  them  lay  in  the  privilege  of  spend- 
ing more  than  they  could  afford  on  house  and  clothing ; 
with  rare  exceptions  they  had  no  hope,  no  chance,  of 
reaching  independence ;  enough  if  they  upheld  the 
threadbare  standard  of  respectability,  and  bequeathed 
it  to  their  children  as  a  solitary  heirloom.  The  oldest 
looked  the  poorest,  and  naturally  so  ;  amid  the  tramp  of 
multiplying  feet,  their  steps  had  begun  to  lag  when  speed 
was  more  than  ever  necessary ;  they  saw  newcomers  out- 
strip them,  and  trudged  under  an  increasing  load. 

No  eye  surveying  this  procession  would  have  paused 
for  a  moment  on  Thomas  Bird.  In  costume  there  was 
nothing  to  distinguish  him  from  hundreds  of  rather 
shabby  clerks  who  passed  along  with  their  out- of- fashion 
chimney-pot  and  badly  rolled  umbrella;  his  gait  was 
that  of  a  man  who  takes  no  exercise  beyond  the  daily 
walk  to  and  from  his  desk  ;  the  casual  glance  could  see 
nothing  in  his  features  but  patient  dullness  tending  to 
good  humour.  He  might  be  thirty,  he  might  be  forty 
— impossible  to  decide.  Yet  when  a  ray  of  sunshine 
fell  upon  him,  and  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  eastward 
promise,  there  shone  in  his  countenance  something  one 
might  vainly  have  sought  through  the  streaming  con- 
course of  which  Thomas  Bird  was  an  unregarded  atom. 
For  him,  it  appeared,  the  struggling  sunlight  had  a 
message  of  hope.  Trouble  cleared  from  his  face;  he 
smiled  unconsciously  and  quickened  his  steps. 

For  fifteen  years  he  had  walked  to  and  fro  over 
Blackfriars  Bridge,  leaving  his  home  in  Camberwell  at 
eight  o'clock  and  reaching  it  again  at  seven.  Fate  made 
him  a  commercial  clerk  as  his  father  before  him ;  he 
earned  more  than  enough  for  his  necessities,  but  seemed 
to  have  reached  the  limit  of  promotion,  for  he  had  no 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH  267 

influential  friends,  and  he  lacked  the  capacity  to  rise  by 
his  own  efforts.  There  may  have  been  some  calling  for 
which  Thomas  was  exactly  suited,  but  he  did  not  know 
of  it ;  in  the  office  he  proved  himself  a  trustworthy 
machine,  with  no  opportunity  of  becoming  anything  else. 
His  parents  were  dead,  his  kindred  scattered,  he  lived,  as 
for  several  years  past,  in  lodgings.  But  it  never  occurred 
to  him  to  think  of  his  lot  as  mournful.  A  man  of 
sociable  instincts,  he  had  many  acquaintances,  some  of 
whom  he  cherished.  An  extreme  simplicity  marked  his 
tastes,  and  the  same  characteristic  appeared  in  his  con- 
versation ;  an  easy  man  to  deceive,  easy  to  make  fun 
of,  yet  impossible  to  dislike,  or  despise — unless  by  the 
despicable.  He  delighted  in  stories  of  adventure,  of 
bravery  by  flood  or  field,  and  might  have  posed — had  he 
ever  posed  at  all — as  something  of  an  authority  on  North 
Pole  expeditions  and  the  geography  of  Polynesia. 

He  received  his  salary  once  a  month,  and  to-day  was 
pay-day :  the  consciousness  of  having  earned  a  certain 
number  of  sovereigns  always  set  his  thoughts  on  possible 
purchases,  and  at  present  he  was  revolving  the  subject 
of  his  wardrobe.  Certainly  it  needed  renewal,  but 
Thomas  could  not  decide  at  which  end  to  begin,  head  or 
feet.  His  position  in  a  leading  house  demanded  a  good 
hat,  the  bad  weather  called  for  new  boots.  Living 
economically  as  he  did,  it  should  have  been  a  simple 
matter  to  resolve  the  doubt  by  purchasing  both  articles, 
but,  for  one  reason  and  another,  Thomas  seldom  had  a 
surplus  over  the  expenses  of  his  lodgings  ;  in  practice 
he  found  it  very  difficult  to  save  a  sovereign  for  other 
needs. 

When  evening  released  him  he  walked  away  in  a 
cheerful  frame  of  mind,  grasping  the  money  in  his 


268  THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

trousers'  pocket,  and  all  but  decided  to  make  some 
acquisition  on  the  way  home.  Near  Ludgate  Circus  some 
one  addressed  him  over  his  shoulder. 

*  Good    evening,   Tom ;    pleasant    for    the    time    of 
year.' 

The  speaker  was  a  man  of  fifty,  stout  and  florid — 
the  latter  peculiarity  especially  marked  in  his  nose ; 
he  looked  like  a  substantial  merchant,  and  spoke  with 
rather  pompous  geniality.  Thrusting  his  arm  through 
the  clerk's,  he  walked  with  him  over  Blackfriars  Bridge, 
talking  in  the  friendliest  strain  of  things  impersonal. 
Beyond  the  bridge — 

'  Do  you  tram  it  ?  '  he  asked,  glancing  upwards. 

i  I  think  so,  Mr.  Warbeck,'  answered  the  other,  whose 
tone  to  his  acquaintance  was  very  respectful. 

*  Ah  !  I  'm  afraid  it  would  make  me  late. — Oh,  by 
the  bye,  Tom,  I  'm  really  ashamed — most  awkward  that 
this  kind  of  thing  happens  so  often,  but — could  you,  do 
you  think  ? — No,  no  ;  one  sovereign  only.      Let  me  make 
a  note  of  it  by  the  light  of  this  shop- window.     Really, 
the  total  is  getting  quite  considerable.     Tut,  tut !   You 
shall  have  a  cheque  in  a  day  or  two.     Oh,  it  can't  run 
on    any   longer ;    I  'm    completely  ashamed   of  myself. 
Entirely   temporary  —  as   I   explained.      A  cheque  on 
Wednesday  at  latest.     Good-bye,  Tom.' 

They  shook  hands  cordially,  and  Mr.  Warbeck  went 
off  in  a  hansom.  Thomas  Bird,  changing  his  mind 
about  the  tram,  walked  all  the  way  home,  and  with  bent 
head.  One  would  have  thought  that  he  had  just  done 
something  discreditable. 

He  was  wondering,  not  for  the  first  time,  whether  Mrs. 
Warbeck  knew  or  suspected  that  her  husband  was  in 
debt  to  him.  Miss  Warbeck — Alma  Warbeck — assuredly 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH  269 

had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  The  system  of 
casual  loans  dated  from  nearly  twelve  months  ago,  and 
the  total  was  now  not  much  less  than  thirty  pounds. 
Mr.  Warbeck  never  failed  to  declare  that  he  was 
ashamed  of  himself,  but  probably  the  creditor  experi- 
enced more  discomfort  of  that  kind.  At  the  first  play- 
ful demand  Thomas  felt  a  shock.  He  had  known  the 
Warbecks  since  he  was  a  lad,  had  always  respected  them 
as  somewhat  his  social  superiors,  and,  as  time  went  on, 
had  recognised  that  the  difference  of  position  grew  wider  : 
he  remaining  stationary,  while  his  friends  progressed  to  a 
larger  way  of  living.  But  they  were,  he  thought,  no  less 
kind  to  him  ;  Mrs.  Warbeck  invited  him  to  the  house 
about  once  a  month,  and  Alma — Alma  talked  with  him 
in  such  a  pleasant,  homely  way.  Did  their  expenditure 
outrun  their  means  ?  He  would  never  have  supposed  it, 
but  for  the  City  man's  singular  behaviour.  About  the 
cheque  so  often  promised  he  cared  little,  but  with  all  his 
heart  he  hoped  Mrs.  Warbeck  did  not  know. 

Somewhere  near  Camberwell  Green,  just  as  he  had 
resumed  the  debate  about  his  purchases,  a  middle-aged 
woman  met  him  with  friendly  greeting.  Her  appear- 
ance was  that  of  a  decent  shopkeeper's  wife. 

*  I  'm  so  glad  I  've  met  you,  Mr.  Bird.     I  know  you'll 
be  anxious  to  hear  how  our  poor  friend  is  getting  on.' 

She  spoke  of  the  daughter  of  a  decayed  tradesman,  a 
weak  and  overworked  girl,  who  had  lain  for  some  weeks 
in  St.  Thomas's  Hospital.  Mrs.  Pritchard,  a  gadabout 
infected  with  philanthropy,  was  fond  of  discovering  such 
cases,  and  in  everyday  conversation  made  the  most  of 
her  charitable  efforts. 

*  They '11  allow  her   out  in  another   week,'  she  pur- 
sued.    *  But,  of  course,  she  can't   expect  to  be  fit  for 


270     THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

anything  for  a  time.  And  I  very  much  doubt  whether 
she'll  ever  get  the  right  use  of  her  limbs  again.  But 
what  we  have  to  think  of  now  is  to  get  her  some  decent 
clothing.  The  poor  thing  has  positively  nothing. 
I  'm  going  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Doubleday,  and  a  few  other 
people.  Really,  Mr.  Bird,  if  it  weren't  that  I  've  pre- 
sumed on  your  good  nature  so  often  lately ' 

She  paused  and  smiled  unctuously  at  him. 

*  I  'm  afraid  I  can't  do  much,'  faltered  Thomas,  redden- 
ing at  the  vision  of  a  new  *  chimney-pot.' 

4  No,  no  ;  of  course  not.  I  'm  sure  I  should  never 
expect — it 's  only  that  every  little — however  little — does 
help,  you  know.' 

Thomas  thrust  a  hand  into  his  pocket  and  brought 
out  a  florin,  which  Mrs.  Pritchard  pursed  with  effusive 
thanks. 

Certain  of  this  good  woman's  critics  doubted  her  com- 
petence as  a  trustee,  but  Thomas  Bird  had  no  such  mis- 
giving. He  talked  with  kindly  interest  of  the  unfortunate 
girl,  and  wished  her  well  in  a  voice  that  carried  con- 
viction. 

His  lodgings  were  a  pair  of  very  small,  mouldy,  and 
ill-furnished  rooms  ;  he  took  them  unwillingly,  overcome 
by  the  landlady's  doleful  story  of  their  long  lodgerless 
condition,  and,  in  the  exercise  of  a  heavenly  forbearance, 
remained  year  after  year.  The  woman  did  not  cheat  him, 
and  Thomas  knew  enough  of  life  to  respect  her  for  this 
remarkable  honesty  ;  she  was  simply  an  ailing,  lachrymose 
slut,  incapable  of  effort.  Her  son,  a  lad  who  had  failed 
in  several  employments  from  sheer  feebleness  of  mind  and 
body,  practically  owed  his  subsistence  to  Thomas  Bird, 
whose  good  offices  had  at  length  established  the  poor 
fellow  at  a  hairdresser's.  To  sit  frequently  for  an  hour 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH  271 

at  a  time,  as  Thomas  did,  listening  with  attention  to  Mrs. 
Batty's  talk  of  her  own  and  her  son's  ailments,  was  in 
itself  a  marvel  of  charity.  This  evening  she  met  him  as 
he  entered,  and  lighted  him  into  his  room. 

'  There 's  a  letter  come  for  you,  Mr.  Bird.  I  put  it 

down  somewheres — why,  now,  where  did  I ?  Oh,  'ere 

it  is.  You  '11  be  glad  to  'ear  as  Sam  did  his  first  shave 
to-day,  an'  his  'and  didn't  tremble  much  neither.' 

Burning  with  desire  to  open  the  letter,  which  he  saw 
was  from  Mrs.  Warbeck,  Thomas  stood  patiently  until 
the  flow  of  words  began  to  gurgle  away  amid  groans  and 
pan  tings. 

*  Well,'  he  cried  gaily, '  didn't  I  promise  Sam  a  shilling 
when  he  'd  done  his  first  shave  ?  If  I  didn't  I  ought  to 
have  done,  and  here  it  is  for  him.' 

Then  he  hurried  into  the  bedroom,  and  read  his  letter 
by  candle-light.  It  was  a  short  scrawl  on  thin,  scented, 
pink-hued  notepaper.  Would  he  do  Mrs.  Warbeck  the 
'favour'  of  looking  in  before  ten  to-night?  No  ex- 
planation of  this  unusually  worded  request ;  and  Thomas 
fell  at  once  into  a  tremor  of  anxiety.  With  a  hurried 
glance  at  his  watch,  he  began  to  make  ready  for  the 
visit,  struggling  with  drawers  which  would  neither  open 
nor  shut,  and  driven  to  despair  by  the  damp  condition 
of  his  clean  linen. 

In  this  room,  locked  away  from  all  eyes  but  his  own, 
lay  certain  relics  which  Thomas  worshipped.  One  was 
a  photograph  of  a  girl  of  fifteen.  At  that  age  Alma 
Warbeck  promised  little  charm,  and  the  photograph 
allowed  her  less  ;  but  it  was  then  that  Thomas  Bird 
became  her  bondman,  as  he  had  ever  since  remained. 
There  was  also  a  letter,  the  only  one  that  he  had  ever 
received  from  her — *  Dear  Mr.  Bird, — Mamma  says  will 


272     THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

you  buy  her  some  more  of  those  jewjewbs  at  the  shop  in 
the  city,  and  bring  them  on  Sunday. — Yours  sincerely, 
Alma  Warbeck' — written  when  she  was  sixteen,  seven 
years  ago.  Moreover,  there  was  a  playbill,  used  by  Alma 
on  the  single  occasion  when  he  accompanied  the  family 
to  a  theatre. 

Never  had  he  dared  to  breathe  a  syllable  of  what  he 
thought — '  hoped '  would  misrepresent  him,  for  Thomas 
in  this  matter  had  always  stifled  hope.  Indeed,  hope 
would  have  been  irrational.  In  the  course  of  her  teens 
Alma  grew  tall  and  well  proportioned  ;  not  beautiful  of 
feature,  but  pleasing  ;  not  brilliant  in  personality,  but 
good-natured ;  fairly  intelligent  and  moderately  ambi- 
tious. She  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  dubiously  active 
commission-agent,  and  must  deem  it  good  fortune  if  she 
married  a  man  with  three  or  four  hundred  a  year ;  but 
Thomas  Bird  had  no  more  than  his  twelve  pounds  a 
month,  and  did  not  venture  to  call  himself  a  gentleman. 
In  Alma  he  found  the  essentials  of  true  ladyhood — per- 
haps with  reason ;  he  had  never  heard  her  say  an  ill- 
natured  thing,  nor  seen  upon  her  face  a  look  which 
pained  his  acute  sensibilities  ;  she  was  unpretentious,  of 
equal  temper,  nothing  of  a  gossip,  kindly  disposed. 
Never  for  a  moment  had  he  flattered  himself  that  Alma 
perceived  his  devotion  or  cared  for  him  otherwise  than 
as  for  an  old  friend.  But  thought  is  free,  and  so  is  love. 
The  modest  clerk  had  made  this  girl  the  light  of  his 
life,  and  whether  far  or  near  the  rays  of  that  ideal 
would  guide  him  on  his  unworldly  path. 

New  shaven  and  freshly  clad,  he  set  out  for  the 
Warbecks1  house,  which  was  in  a  near  part  of  Brixton. 
Not  an  imposing  house  by  any  means,  but  an  object  of 
reverence  to  Thomas  Bird.  A  servant  whom  he  did 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH  273 

not  recognise — servants  came  and  went  at  the  War- 
becks1 — admitted  him  to  the  drawing-room,  which  was 
vacant ;  there,  his  eyes  wandering  about  the  gimcrack 
furniture,  which  he  never  found  in  the  same  arrange- 
ment at  two  successive  visits,  he  waited  till  his  hostess 
came  in. 

Mrs.  Warbeck  was  very  stout,  very  plain,  and  rather 
untidy,  yet  her  countenance  made  an  impression  not  on 
the  whole  disagreeable;  with  her  wide  eyes,  slightly 
parted  lips,  her  homely  smile,  and  unadorned  speech, 
she  counteracted  in  some  measure  the  effect,  upon  a 
critical  observer,  of  the  pretentious  ugliness  with  which 
she  was  surrounded.  Thomas  thought  her  a  straight- 
forward woman,  and  perhaps  was  not  misled  by  his 
partiality.  Certainly  the  tone  in  which  she  now  began, 
and  the  tenor  of  her  remarks,  repelled  suspicion  of 
duplicity. 

'Well,  now,  Mr.  Thomas,  I  wish  to  have  a  talk.1 
She  had  thus  styled  him  since  he  grew  too  old  to  be 
called  Tom  ;  that  is  to  say,  since  he  was  seventeen. 
He  was  now  thirty-one.  *  And  I  'm  going  to  talk  to 
you  just  like  the  old  friends  we  are.  You  see  ?  No 
nonsense ;  no  beating  about  the  bush.  You  'd  rather 
have  it  so,  wouldn't  you  ? '  Scarce  able  to  articulate, 
the  visitor  showed  a  cheery  assent.  *  Yes,  I  was  sure  of 
that.  Now — better  come  to  the  point  at  once — my 
daughter  is — well,  no,  she  isn't  yet,  but  the  fact  is  I 
feel  sure  she'll  very  soon  be  engaged.' 

The  blow  was  softened  by  Thomas's  relief  at  discover- 
ing that  money  would  not  be  the  subject  of  their  talk, 
yet  it  fell  upon  him,  and  he  winced. 

*  You  've  expected  it,'  pursued  the  lady,  with  bluff 
good-humour.  *  Yes,  of  course  you  have.'  She  said 

s 


274     THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

'  'ave,'  a  weakness  happily  unshared  by  her  daughter. 
*  We  don't  want  it  talked  about,  but  I  know  you  can 
hold  your  tongue.  Well,  it's  young  Mr.  Fisher,  of 
Nokes,  Fisher  and  Co.  We  haven't  known  him  long, 
but  he  took  from  the  first  to  Alma,  and  I  have  my 
reasons  for  believing  that  the  feeling  is  mutial,  though 
I  wouldn't  for  the  world  let  Alma  hear  me  say  so.' 

*  Young  Mr.  Fisher.    Thomas  knew  of  him  ;  a  capable 
business  man,  and  son  of  a  worthy  father.     He  kept  his 
teeth  close,  his  eyes  down. 

*  And  now,'  pursued   Mrs.  Warbeck,  becoming   still 
more  genial,  *  I  'm  getting  round  to  the  unpleasant  side 
of  the  talk,  though  I   don't  see  that   it   need   be   un- 
pleasant.     We're  old  friends,  and  where 's  the  use  of 
being  friendly  if  you  can't  speak  your  mind,  when  speak 
you  must  ?      It  comes   to  this :  I  just  want  to  ask  you 
quite  straightforward,  not  to  be  offended  or  take  it  ill 
if  we  don't  ask  you  to  come  here  till  this  business  is  over 
and  settled.     You  see  ?     The  fact  is,  we  Ve  told  Mr. 
Fisher  he  can  look  in  whenever  he  likes,  and  it  might 
happen,  you  know,  that  he  'd  meet  you  here,  and,  speak- 
ing like  old  friends — I  think  it  better  not.' 

A  fire  burned  in  the  listener's  cheeks,  a  noise  buzzed 
in  his  ears.  He  understood  the  motive  of  this  frank  re- 
quest ;  humble  as  ever — never  humbler  than  when  beneath 
this  roof — he  was  ready  to  avow  himself  Mr.  Fisher's 
inferior ;  but  with  al  I  his  heart  he  wished  that  Mrs. 
Warbeck  had  found  some  other  way  of  holding  him  aloof 
from  her  prospective  son-in-law. 

*  Of  course,'  continued    the   woman   stolidly,   *  Alma 
doesn't  know  I'm  saying  this.      It's  just  between  our 
two  selves.     I  haven't  even  spoken  of  it  to  Mr.  Warbeck. 
I'm  quite  sure  that  you  '11  understand  that  we  're  obliged 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH  275 

to  make  a  few  changes  in  the  way  we've  lived.  It's  all 
very  well  for  you  and  me  to  be  comfortable  together,  and 
laugh  and  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things,  but  with  one 
like  Alma  in  the  'ouse,  and  the  friends  she 's  making  and 
the  company  that's  likely  to  come  here — now  you  do 
see  what  I  mean,  don't  you,  now  ?  And  you  won't  take 
it  the  wrong  way  ?  No,  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't.  There, 
now,  we  '11  shake  'ands  over  it,  and  be  as  good  friends 
as  ever.'  The  handshaking  was  metaphorical  merely. 
Thomas  smiled,  and  was  endeavouring  to  shape  a  sentence, 
when  he  heard  voices  out  in  the  hall. 

*  There 's  Alma  and  her  father  back,'  said  Mrs.  War- 
beck.       *  I   didn't   think    they  'd   come   back    so    soon ; 
they've  been  with  some  new  friends  of  ours.'     Thomas 
jumped  up. 

*  I  can't — I  'd  rather  not  see  them,  please,  Mrs.  War- 
beck.      Can  you   prevent  it?'     His  voice  startled   her 
somewhat,   and   she  hesitated.     A  gesture   of  entreaty 
sent  her  from  the  room.     As   the  door  opened  Alma 
was  heard  laughing  merrily ;  then  came  silence.     In  a 
minute  or  two  the  hostess  returned  and  the  visitor,  falter- 
ing, '  Thank  you.     I  quite  understand,'  quietly  left  the 
house. 

For  three  weeks  he  crossed  and  recrossed  Blackfriars 
Bridge  without  meeting  Mr.  Warbeck.  His  look  was 
perhaps  graver,  his  movements  less  alert,  but  he  had 
not  noticeably  changed ;  his  life  kept  its  wonted  tenor. 
The  florid-nosed  gentleman  at  length  came  face  to  face 
with  him  on  Ludgate  Hill  in  the  dinner-hour — an  em- 
barrassment to  both.  Speedily  recovering  self-possession 
Mr.  Warbeck  pressed  the  clerk's  hand  with  fervour  and 
drew  him  aside. 

4 1  've  been  wanting  to  see  you,  Tom.     So  you  keep 


276     THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

away  from  us,  do  you  ?  I  understand.  The  old  lady 
has  given  me  a  quiet  hint.  Well,  well,  you're  quite 
right,  and  I  honour  you  for  it,  Tom.  Nothing  selfish 
about  you ;  you  keep  it  all  to  yourself ;  I  honour  you 
for  it,  my  dear  boy.  And  perhaps  I  had  better  tell  you, 
Alma  is  to  be  married  in  January.  After  that,  same  as 
before,  won't  it  be  ? — Have  a  glass  of  wine  with  me  ? 
No  time  ?  We  must  have  a  quiet  dinner  together  some 
evening ;  one  of  the  old  chop  houses. — There  was  some- 
thing else  I  wanted  to  speak  about,  but  I  see  you  're  in 
a  hurry.  All  right,  it  '11  do  next  time.' 

He  waved  his  hand  and  was  gone.  When  next  they 
encountered  Mr.  Warbeck  made  bold  to  borrow  ten 
shillings,  without  the  most  distant  allusion  to  his  out- 
standing debt. 

Thomas  Bird  found  comfort  in  the  assurance  that 
Mrs.  Warbeck  had  kept  her  secret  as  the  borrower  kept 
his. 

Alma's  father  was  not  utterly  dishonoured  in  his 
sight. 

One  day  in  January,  Thomas,  pleading  indisposition, 
left  work  at  twelve.  He  had  a  cold  and  a  headache, 
and  felt  more  miserable  than  at  any  time  since  his 
school -days.  As  he  rode  home  in  an  omnibus  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Warbeck  were  entertaining  friends  at  the  wedding- 
breakfast,  and  Thomas  knew  it.  For  an  hour  or  two 
in  the  afternoon  he  sat  patiently  under  his  landlady's 
talk,  but  a  fit  of  nervous  exasperation  at  length  drove 
him  forth,  and  he  did  not  return  till  supper-time.  Just 
as  he  sat  down  to  a  basin  of  gruel,  Mrs.  Batty  admitted 
a  boy  who  brought  him  a  message.  *  Mother  sent  me 
round,  Mr.  Bird,'  said  the  messenger,  '  and  she  wants  to 
know  if  you  could  just  come  and  see  her ;  it 's  something 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH  277 

about  father.      He  had  some  work  to  do,  but  he  hasn't 
come  home  to  do  it.1 

Without  speaking  Thomas  equipped  himself  and  walked 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  lodgings  of  a  married  friend 
of  his — a  clerk  chronically  out  of  work,  and  too  often  in 
liquor.  The  wife  received  him  with  tears.  After  eight 
weeks  without  earning  a  penny,  her  husband  had  obtained 
the  job  of  addressing  five  hundred  envelopes,  to  be  done 
at  home  and  speedily.  Tempted  forth  by  an  acquaintance 
*  for  half  a  minute '  as  he  sat  down  to  the  task,  he  had 
been  absent  for  three  hours,  and  would  certainly  return 
unfit  for  work. 

*  It  isn't  only  the  money,'  sobbed  his  wife,  '  but  it 
might  have  got  him  more  work,  and  now,  of  course,  he 's 
lost  the  chance,  and  we  haven't  nothing  more  than  a 
crust  of  bread  left.      And ' 

Thomas  slipped  half  -  a  -  crown  into  her  hand  and 
whispered,  <  Send  Jack  before  the  shops  close.'  Then,  to 
escape  thanks,  he  shouted  out,  '  Where 's  these  blessed 
envelopes,  and  where 's  the  addresses?  All  right,  just 
leave  me  this  corner  of  the  table  and  don't  speak  to  me 
as  long  as  I  sit  here.' 

Between  half-past  nine  and  half-past  twelve,  at  the 
rate  of  eighty  an  hour,  he  addressed  all  but  half  the  five 
hundred  envelopes.  Then  his  friend  appeared,  dolefully 
drunk.  Thomas  would  not  look  at  him. 

*  He  '11  finish  the  rest  by  dinner  to-morrow,'  said  the 
miserable  wife,  *  and  that 's  in  time.' 

So  Thomas  Bird  went  home.  He  felt  better  at 
heart,  and  blamed  himself  for  his  weakness  during 
the  day.  He  blamed  himself  often  enough  for  this  or 
that,  knowing  not  that  such  as  he  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth. 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

'  I  POSSESS  a  capital  of  thirty  thousand  pounds.  One- 
third  of  this  is  invested  in  railway  shares,  which  bear 
interest  at  three  and  a  half  per  cent. ;  another  third 
is  in  Government  stock,  and  produces  two  and  three- 
quarters  per  cent.  ;  the  rest  is  lent  on  mortgages,  at 
three  per  cent.  Calculate  my  income  for  the  present 
year.' 

This  kind  of  problem  was  constantly  being  given  out 
by  Mr.  Ruddiman,  assistant  master  at  Longmeadows 
School.  Mr.  Ruddiman,  who  had  reached  the  age  of 
five-and-forty,  and  who  never  in  his  life  had  possessed 
five-and-forty  pounds,  used  his  arithmetic  lesson  as  an 
opportunity  for  flight  of  imagination.  When  dictating 
a  sum  in  which  he  attributed  to  himself  enormous  wealth, 
his  eyes  twinkled,  his  slender  body  struck  a  dignified 
attitude,  and  he  smiled  over  the  class  with  a  certain 
genial  condescension.  When  the  calculation  proposed 
did  not  refer  to  personal  income  it  generally  illustrated 
the  wealth  of  the  nation,  in  which  Mr.  Ruddiman  had 
a  proud  delight.  He  would  bid  his  youngsters  compute 
the  proceeds  of  some  familiar  tax,  and  the  vast  sum  it 
represented  rolled  from  his  lips  on  a  note  of  extraordinary 
satisfaction,  as  if  he  gloried  in  this  evidence  of  national 
prosperity.  His  salary  at  Longmeadows  just  sufficed  to 
keep  him  decently  clad  and  to  support  him  during  the 

278 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  279 

holidays.  He  had  been  a  master  here  for  seven  years, 
and  earnestly  hoped  that  his  services  might  be  retained 
for  at  least  seven  more ;  there  was  very  little  chance  of 
his  ever  obtaining  a  better  position,  and  the  thought  of 
being  cast  adrift,  of  having  to  betake  himself  to  the 
school  agencies  and  enter  upon  new  engagements,  gave 
Mr.  Ruddiman  a  very  unpleasant  sensation.  In  his  time 
he  had  gone  through  hardships  such  as  naturally  befall 
a  teacher  without  diplomas  and  possessed  of  no  remark- 
able gifts  ;  that  he  had  never  broken  down  in  health  was 
the  result  of  an  admirable  constitution  and  of  much 
native  cheerfulness.  Only  at  such  an  establishment  as 
Longmeadows — an  old-fashioned  commercial  '  academy,"" 
recommended  to  parents  by  the  healthiness  of  its  rural 
situation — could  he  have  hoped  to  hold  his  ground 
against  modern  educational  tendencies,  which  aim  at 
obliterating  Mr.  Ruddiman  and  all  his  kind.  Every  one 
liked  him  ;  impossible  not  to  like  a  man  so  abounding 
in  kindliness  and  good  humour ;  but  his  knowledge  was 
anything  but  extensive,  and  his  methods  in  instruction 
had  a  fine  flavour  of  antiquity.  Now  and  then  Mr. 
Ruddiman  asked  himself  what  was  to  become  of  him 
when  sickness  or  old  age  forbade  his  earning  even  the 
modest  income  upon  which  he  could  at  present  count, 
but  his  happy  temper  dismissed  the  troublesome  reflec- 
tion. One  thing,  however,  he  had  decided;  in  future 
he  would  find  some  more  economical  way  of  spending  his 
holidays.  Hitherto  he  had  been  guilty  of  the  extrava- 
gance of  taking  long  journeys  to  see  members  of  his 
scattered  family,  or  of  going  to  the  seaside,  or  of  amus- 
ing himself  (oh,  how  innocently  !)  in  London.  This  kind 
of  thing  must  really  stop.  In  the  coming  summer 
vacation  he  had  determined  to  save  at  least  five  sovereigns, 


280  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

and  he  fancied  he  had  discovered  a  simple  way  of 
doing  it. 

On  pleasant  afternoons,  when  he  was  '  off  duty,1  Mr. 
Ruddiman  liked  to  have  a  long  ramble  by  himself  about 
the  fields  and  lanes.  In  solitude  he  was  never  dull ;  had 
you  met  him  during  one  of  these  afternoon  walks,  more 
likely  than  not  you  would  have  seen  a  gentle  smile  on 
his  visage  as  he  walked  with  head  bent.  Not  that  his 
thoughts  were  definitely  of  agreeable  things  ;  consciously 
he  thought  perhaps  of  nothing  at  all ;  but  he  liked  the 
sunshine  and  country  quiet,  and  the  sense  of  momentary 
independence.  Every  one  would  have  known  him  for 
what  he  was.  His  dress,  his  gait,  his  countenance, 
declared  the  under-master.  Mr.  Ruddiman  never  carried 
a  walking-stick ;  that  would  have  seemed  to  him  to  be 
arrogating  a  social  position  to  which  he  had  no  claim. 
Generally  he  held  his  hands  together  behind  him  ;  if  not 
so,  one  of  them  would  dip  its  fingers  into  a  waistcoat 
pocket  and  the  other  grasp  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  If 
anything  he  looked  rather  less  than  his  age,  a  result, 
perhaps,  of  having  always  lived  with  the  young.  His 
features  were  agreeably  insignificant ;  his  body,  though 
slight  of  build,  had  something  of  athletic  outline,  due  to 
long  practice  at  cricket,  football,  and  hockey. 

If  he  had  rather  more  time  than  usual  at  his  disposal 
he  walked  as  far  as  the  Pig  and  Whistle,  a  picturesque 
little  wayside  inn,  which  stood  alone,  at  more  than  a 
mile  from  the  nearest  village.  To  reach  the  Pig  and 
Whistle  one  climbed  a  long,  slow  ascent,  and  in  warm 
weather  few  pedestrians,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  folks 
driving  or  riding,  could  resist  the  suggestion  of  the  ivy- 
shadowed  porch  which  admitted  to  the  quaint  parlour. 
So  long  was  it  since  the  swinging  sign  had  been  painted 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  281 

that  neither  of  Pig  nor  of  Whistle  was  any  trace  now  dis- 
coverable ;  but  over  the  porch  one  read  clearly  enough 
the  landlord's  name :  William  Fouracres.  Only  three 
years  ago  had  Mr.  Fouracres  established  himself  here; 
Ruddiman  remembered  his  predecessor,  with  whom  he 
had  often  chatted  whilst  drinking  his  modest  bottle  of 
ginger  beer.  The  present  landlord  was  a  very  different 
sort  of  man,  less  affable,  not  disposed  to  show  himself  to 
every  comer.  Customers  were  generally  served  by  the 
landlord's  daughter,  and  with  her  Mr.  Ruddiman  had 
come  to  be  on  very  pleasant  terms. 

But  as  this  remark  may  easily  convey  a  false  impres- 
sion, it  must  be  added  that  Miss  Fouracres  was  a  very 
discreet,  well-spoken,  deliberate  person,  of  at  least  two- 
and-thirty.  Mr.  Ruddiman  had  known  her  for  more 
than  a  year  before  anything  save  brief  civilities  passed 
between  them.  In  the  second  twelvemonth  of  their 
acquaintance  they  reached  the  point  of  exchanging 
reminiscences  as  to  the  weather,  discussing  the  agricultural 
prospects  of  the  county,  and  remarking  on  the  advantage 
to  rural  innkeepers  of  the  fashion  of  bicycling.  In  the 
third  year  they  were  quite  intimate ;  so  intimate,  indeed, 
that  when  Mr.  Fouracres  chanced  to  be  absent  they  spoke 
of  his  remarkable  history.  For  the  landlord  of  the  Pig 
and  Whistle  had  a  history  worth  talking  about,  and 
Mr.  Ruddiman  had  learnt  it  from  the  landlord's  own 
lips.  Miss  Fouracres  would  never  have  touched  upon 
the  subject  with  any  one  in  whom  she  did  not  feel  con- 
fidence ;  to  her  it  was  far  from  agreeable,  and  Mr. 
Ruddiman  established  himself  in  her  esteem  by  taking 
the  same  view  of  the  matter. 

Well,  one  July  afternoon,  when  the  summer  vacation 
drew  near,  the  under-master  perspired  up  the  sunny 


282  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

road  with  another  object  than  that  of  refreshing  himself 
at  the  familiar  little  inn.  He  entered  by  the  ivied 
porch,  and  within,  as  usual,  found  Miss  Fouracres,  who 
sat  behind  the  bar  sewing.  Miss  Fouracres  wore  a  long 
white  apron,  which  protected  her  dress  from  neck  to 
feet,  and  gave  her  an  appearance  of  great  neatness  and 
coolness.  She  had  a  fresh  complexion,  and  features 
which  made  no  disagreeable  impression.  At  sight  of 
the  visitor  she  rose,  and,  as  her  habit  was,  stood  with 
one  hand  touching  her  chin,  whilst  she  smiled  the  dis- 
creetest  of  modest  welcomes. 

'  Good  day,  Miss  Fouracres,'  said  the  under-master, 
after  his  usual  little  cough. 

'Good  day,  sir,'  was  the  reply,  in  a  country  voice 
which  had  a  peculiar  note  of  honesty.  Miss  Fouracres 
had  never  yet  learnt  her  acquaintance's  name. 

1  Splendid  weather  for  the  crops.  I  '11  take  a  ginger- 
beer,  if  you  please.' 

'  Indeed,  that  it  is,  sir.     Ginger-beer ;  yes,  sir.' 

Then  followed  two  or  three  minutes  of  silence.  Miss 
Fouracres  had  resumed  her  sewing,  though  not  her  seat. 
Mr.  Ruddiman  sipped  his  beverage  more  gravely  than 
usual. 

'  How  is  Mr.  Fouracres  ? '  he  asked  at  length. 

'  I  'm  sorry  to  say,  sir,'  was  the  subdued  reply,  *  that 
he  's  thinking  about  the  Prince.' 

4  Oh,  dear  ! '  sighed  Mr.  Ruddiman,  as  one  for  whom 
this  mysterious  answer  had  distressing  significance. 
*  That 's  a  great  pity.' 

'  Yes,  sir.  And  I  'm  sorry  to  say,'  went  on  Miss 
Fouracres,  in  the  same  confidential  tone, '  that  the  Prince 
is  coming  here.  I  don't  mean  here,  sir,  to  the  Pig  and 
Whistle,  but  to  Woodbury  Manor.  Father  saw  it  in 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  283 

the  newspaper,  and  since  then  he 's  had  no  rest,  day  or 
night.  He 's  sitting  out  in  the  garden.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  'd  like  to  go  and  speak  to  him,  sir  ? ' 

'  I  will.  Yes,  I  certainly  will.  But  there 's  some- 
thing I  should  like  to  ask  you  about  first,  Miss  Fouracres. 
I'm  thinking  of  staying  in  this  part  of  the  country 
through  the  holidays' — long  ago  he  had  made  known 
his  position — '  and  it  has  struck  me  that  perhaps  I  could 
lodge  here.  Could  you  let  me  have  a  room  ?  Just  a 
bedroom  would  be  enough.' 

*  Why,  yes,  sir,'  replied  the  landlord's  daughter.    *  We 
have  two  bedrooms,  you  know,  and  I  Ve  no  doubt  my 
father  would  be  willing  to  arrange  with  you.' 

*  Ah,  then  I  '11  mention  it  to  him.     Is  he  in  very  low 
spirits  ? ' 

*  He's  unusual  low  to-day,  sir.    I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
it  did  him  good  to  see  you,  and  talk  a  bit.' 

Having  finished  his  ginger-beer,  Mr.  Ruddiman  walked 
through  the  house  and  passed  out  into  the  garden,  where 
he  at  once  became  aware  of  Mr.  Fouracres.  The  land- 
lord, a  man  of  sixty,  with  grizzled  hair  and  large,  heavy 
countenance,  sat  in  a  rustic  chair  under  an  apple-tree ; 
beside  him  was  a  little  table,  on  which  stood  a  bottle  of 
whisky  and  a  glass.  Approaching,  Mr.  Ruddiman  saw 
reason  to  suspect  that  the  landlord  had  partaken  too 
freely  of  the  refreshment  ready  to  his  hand.  Mr.  Four- 
acres'  person  was  in  a  limp  state ;  his  cheeks  were  very 
highly  coloured,  and  his  head  kept  nodding  as  he 
muttered  to  himself.  At  the  visitor's  greeting  he  looked 
up  with  a  sudden  surprise,  as  though  he  resented  an 
intrusion  on  his  privacy. 

'  It 's  very  hot,  Mr.  Fouracres,'  the  under-master  went 
on  to  remark  with  cordiality. 


284  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

*  Hot  ?    I  dare  say  it  is,'  replied  the  landlord  severely. 
*  And  what  else  do  you  expect  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
sir?' 

*  Just  so,  Mr.  Fouracres,  just  so  ! '  said  the  other,  as 
good-humouredly  as  possible.     *  You  don't  find  it  un- 
pleasant ? ' 

4  Why  should  I,  sir  ?  It  was  a  good  deal  hotter  day 
than  this  when  His  Royal  Highness  called  upon  me;  a 
good  deal  hotter.  The  Prince  didn't  complain ;  not  he. 
He  said  to  me — I  'm  speaking  of  His  Royal  Highness, 
you  understand  ;  I  hope  you  understand  that,  sir  ?  ' 

«  Oh,  perfectly  ! ' 

*  His  words    were — "  Very    seasonable   weather,  Mr. 
Fouracres."     I  'm  not  likely  to  forget  what  he  said  ;  so 
it 's  no  use  you  or  any  one  else  trying  to  make  out  that 
he  didn't  say  that.      I  tell  you  he  did !     "  Very  season- 
able weather,  Mr.  Fouracres  " — calling  me  by  name,  just 
like  that.    And  it 's  no  good  you  nor  anybody  else ' 

The  effort  of  repeating  the  Prince's  utterance  with 
what  was  meant  to  be  a  princely  accent  proved  so 
exhausting  to  Mr.  Fouracres  that  he  sank  together  in 
his  chair  and  lost  all  power  of  coherent  speech.  In  a 
moment  he  seemed  to  be  sleeping.  Having  watched 
him  a  little  while,  Mr.  Ruddiman  spoke  his  name,  and 
tried  to  attract  his  attention ;  finding  it  useless  he  went 
back  into  the  inn. 

*  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  put  it  off  to  another  day, 
was  his  remark  to  the  landlord's  daughter.      '  Mr.  Four- 
acres  is — rather  drowsy.' 

*  Ah,  sir ! '  sighed  the  young  woman.     *  I  'm  sorry  to 
say  he 's  often  been  like  that  lately.' 

Their  eyes  met,  but  only  for  an  instant.  Mr.  Ruddi- 
man looked  and  felt  uncomfortable. 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  285 

*  I  '11  come  again  very  soon,  Miss  Fouracres,'  he  said. 
*  You  might  just  speak  to  your  father  about  the  room.1 

'Thank  you,  sir.      I  will,  sir.1 

And,  with  another  uneasy  glance,  which  was  not 
returned,  the  under-master  went  his  way.  Descending 
towards  Longmeadows,  he  thought  over  the  innkeeper's 
story,  which  may  be  briefly  related.  Some  ten  years 
before  this  Mr.  Fouracres  occupied  a  very  comfortable 
position ;  he  was  landlord  of  a  flourishing  inn — called  an 
hotel — in  a  little  town  of  some  importance  as  an  agri- 
cultural centre,  and  seemed  perfectly  content  with  the 
life  and  the  society  natural  to  a  man  so  circumstanced. 
His  manners  were  marked  by  a  certain  touch  of  pomp- 
ousness,  and  he  liked  to  dwell  upon  the  excellence  of 
the  entertainment  which  his  house  afforded,  but  these 
were  innocent  characteristics  which  did  not  interfere 
with  his  reputation  as  a  sensible  and  sound  man  of 
business.  It  happened  one  day  that  two  gentlemen  on 
horseback,  evidently  riding  for  their  pleasure,  stopped  at 
the  inn  door,  and,  after  a  few  inquiries,  announced  that 
they  would  alight  and  have  lunch.  Mr.  Fouracres — 
who  himself  received  these  gentlemen — regarded  one  of 
them  with  much  curiosity,  and  presently  came  to  the 
startling  conclusion  that  he  was  about  to  entertain  no 
less  a  person  than  the  Heir  Apparent.  He  knew  that 
the  Prince  was  then  staying  at  a  great  house  some  ten 
miles  away,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  one  of  his 
guests  had  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  familiar  portraits 
of  His  Royal  Highness.  In  his  excitement  at  the 
supposed  discovery,  Mr.  Fouracres  at  once  communicated 
it  to  those  about  him,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  half 
the  town  had  heard  the  news.  Of  course  the  host  would 
allow  no  one  but  himself  to  wait  at  the  royal  table — 


286  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

which  was  spread  in  the  inn's  best  room,  guarded  against 
all  intrusion.  In  vain,  however,  did  he  listen  for  a  word 
from  either  of  the  gentlemen  which  might  confirm  his 
belief;  in  their  conversation  no  name  or  title  was  used, 
and  no  mention  made  of  anything  significant.  They 
remained  for  an  hour.  When  their  horses  were  brought 
round  for  them  a  considerable  crowd  had  gathered 
before  the  hotel,  and  the  visitors  departed  amid  a 
demonstration  of  exuberant  loyalty.  On  the  following 
day,  one  or  two  persons  who  had  been  present  at  this 
scene  declared  that  the  two  gentlemen  showed  surprise> 
and  that,  though  both  raised  their  hats  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  attention  they  received,  they  rode  away 
laughing. 

For  the  morrow  brought  doubts.  People  began  to 
say  that  the  Prince  had  never  been  near  the  town  at  all, 
and  that  evidence  could  be  produced  of  his  having  passed 
the  whole  day  at  the  house  where  he  was  a  visitor.  Mr. 
Fouracres  smiled  disdainfully  ;  no  assertion  or  argument 
availed  to  shake  his  proud  assurance  that  he  had  enter- 
tained the  Heir  to  the  Throne.  From  that  day  he  knew 
no  peace.  Fired  with  an  extraordinary  arrogance,  he 
viewed  as  his  enemy  every  one  who  refused  to  believe  in 
the  Prince's  visit ;  he  quarrelled  violently  with  many  of 
his  best  friends ;  he  brought  insulting  accusations  against 
all  manner  of  persons.  Before  long  the  man  was  honestly 
convinced  that  there  existed  a  conspiracy  to  rob  him  of 
a  distinction  that  was  his  due.  Political  animus  had, 
perhaps,  something  to  do  with  it,  for  the  Liberal  news- 
paper (Mr.  Fouracres  was  a  stout  Conservative)  made 
more  than  one  malicious  joke  on  the  subject.  A  few 
townsmen  stood  by  the  landlord's  side  and  used  their 
ingenuity  in  discovering  plausible  reasons  why  the  Prince 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  287 

did  not  care  to  have  it  publicly  proclaimed  that  he  had 
visited  the  town  and  lunched  at  the  hotel.  These 
partisans  scorned  the  suggestion  that  Mr.  Fouracres  had 
made  a  mistake,  but  they  were  unable  to  deny  that  a 
letter,  addressed  to  the  Prince  himself,  with  a  view  to 
putting  an  end  to  the  debate,  had  elicited  (in  a  secretarial 
hand)  a  brief  denial  of  the  landlord's  story.  Evidently 
something  very  mysterious  underlay  the  whole  affair, 
and  there  was  much  shaking  of  heads  for  a  long  time. 

To  Mr.  Fouracres  the  result  of  the  honour  he  so 
strenuously  vindicated  was  serious  indeed.  By  way  of 
defiance  to  all  mockers  he  wished  to  change  the  time- 
honoured  sign  of  the  inn,  and  to  substitute  for  it  the 
Prince  of  Wales's  Feathers.  On  this  point  he  came 
into  conflict  with  the  owner  of  the  property,  and,  having 
behaved  very  violently,  received  notice  that  his  lease, 
just  expiring,  would  not  be  renewed.  Whereupon  what 
should  Mr.  Fouracres  do  but  purchase  land  and  begin 
to  build  for  himself  an  hotel  twice  as  large  as  that  he 
must  shortly  quit.  On  this  venture  he  used  all,  and 
more  than  all,  his  means,  and,  as  every  one  had  prophe- 
sied, he  was  soon  a  ruined  man.  In  less  than  three 
years  from  the  fatal  day  he  turned  his  back  upon  the 
town  where  he  had  known  respect  and  prosperity,  and 
went  forth  to  earn  his  living  as  best  he  could.  After 
troublous  wanderings,  on  which  he  was  accompanied  by 
his  daughter,  faithful  and  devoted,  though  she  had  her 
doubts  on  a  certain  subject,  the  decayed  publican  at 
length  found  a  place  of  rest.  A  small  legacy  from  a 
relative  had  put  it  in  his  power  to  make  a  new,  though 
humble,  beginning  in  business;  he  established  himself 
at  the  Pig  and  Whistle. 

The  condition  in  which  he  had  to-day  been  discovered 


288  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

by  Mr.  Ruddiman  was  not  habitual  with  him.  Once 
a  month,  perhaps,  his  melancholy  thoughts  drove  him 
to  the  bottle  ;  for  the  most  part  he  led  a  sullen,  brood- 
ing life,  indifferent  to  the  state  of  his  affairs,  and  only 
animated  when  he  found  a  new  and  appreciative  listener 
to  the  story  of  his  wrongs.  That  he  had  been  grievously 
wronged  was  Mr.  Fouracres'  immutable  conviction.  Not 
by  His  Royal  Highness ;  the  Prince  knew  nothing  of 
the  strange  conspiracy  which  had  resulted  in  Fouracres' 
ruin ;  letters  addressed  to  His  Royal  Highness  were 
evidently  intercepted  by  underlings,  and  never  came 
before  the  royal  eyes.  Again  and  again  had  Mr.  Four- 
acres  written  long  statements  of  his  case,  and  petitioned 
for  an  audience.  He  was  now  resolved  to  adopt  other 
methods  ;  he  would  use  the  first  opportunity  of  approach- 
ing the  Princess  person,  and  lifting  up  his  voice  where 
he  could  not  but  be  heard.  He  sought  no  vulgar  gain ; 
his  only  desire  was  to  have  this  fact  recognised,  that  he 
had,  indeed,  entertained  the  Prince,  and  so  put  to  shame 
all  his  scornful  enemies.  And  now  the  desired  occasion 
offered  itself.  In  the  month  of  September  His  Royal 
Highness  would  be  a  guest  at  Woodbury  Manor,  distant 
only  some  couple  of  miles  from  the  Pig  and  Whistle. 
It  was  the  excitement  of  such  a  prospect  which  had  led 
Mr.  Fouracres  to  undue  indulgence  under  the  apple-tree 
this  afternoon. 

A  week  later  Mr.  Ruddiman  again  ascended  the  hill, 
and,  after  listening  patiently  to  the  narrative  which  he 
had  heard  fifty  times,  came  to  an  arrangement  with  Mr. 
Fouracres  about  the  room  he  wished  to  rent  for  the 
holidays.  The  terms  were  very  moderate,  and  the  under- 
master  congratulated  himself  on  this  prudent  step.  He 
felt  sure  that  a  couple  of  months  at  the  Pig  and  Whistle 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  289 

would  be  anything  but  disagreeable.  The  situation  was 
high  and  healthy ;  the  surroundings  were  picturesque. 
And  for  society,  well,  there  was  Miss  Fouracres,  whom 
Mr.  Ruddiman  regarded  as  a  very  sensible  and  pleasant 
person. 

Of  course,  no  one  at  Longmeadows  had  an  inkling  of 
the  under- master's  intention.  On  the  day  of  *  breaking 
up '  he  sent  his  luggage,  as  usual,  to  the  nearest  railway 
station,  and  that  same  evening  had  it  conveyed  by  carrier 
to  the  little  wayside  inn,  where,  much  at  ease  in  mind 
and  body,  he  passed  his  first  night. 

He  had  a  few  books  with  him,  but  Mr.  Ruddiman 
was  not  much  of  a  reader.  In  the  garden  of  the  inn, 
or  somewhere  near  by,  he  found  a  spot  of  shade,  and 
there,  pipe  in  mouth,  was  content  to  fleet  the  hours  as 
they  did  in  the  golden  age.  Now  and  then  he  tried  to 
awaken  his  host's  interest  in  questions  of  national  finance. 
It  was  one  of  Mr.  Ruddiman's  favourite  amusements  to 
sketch  Budgets  in  anticipation  of  that  to  be  presented 
by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  he  always  con- 
vinced himself  that  his  own  financial  expedients  were 
much  superior  to  those  laid  before  Parliament.  All 
sorts  of  ingenious  little  imposts  were  constantly  occur- 
ring to  him,  and  his  mouth  watered  with  delight  at  the 
sound  of  millions  which  might  thus  be  added  to  the 
national  wealth.  But  to  Mr.  Fouracres  such  matters 
seemed  trivial.  A  churchwarden  between  his  lips,  he 
appeared  to  listen,  sometimes  giving  a  nod  or  a  grunt ; 
in  reality  his  thoughts  were  wandering  amid  bygone 
glories,  or  picturing  a  day  of  brilliant  revenge. 

Much  more  satisfactory  were  the  conversations  between 
Mr.  Ruddiman  and  his  host's  daughter;  they  were 
generally  concerned  with  the  budget,  not  of  the  nation, 


290  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

but  of  the  Pig  and  Whistle.  Miss  Fouracres  was  a 
woman  of  much  domestic  ability ;  she  knew  how  to  get 
the  maximum  of  comfort  out  of  small  resources.  But 
for  her  the  inn  would  have  been  a  wretched  little  place 
— as,  indeed,  it  was  before  her  time.  Miss  Fouracres 
worked  hard  and  prudently.  She  had  no  help ;  the 
garden,  the  poultry,  all  the  cares  of  house  and  inn  were 
looked  after  by  her  alone — except,  indeed,  a  few  tasks 
beyond  her  physical  strength,  which  were  disdainfully 
performed  by  the  landlord.  A  pony  and  cart  served 
chiefly  to  give  Mr.  Fouracres  an  airing  when  his  life 
of  sedentary  dignity  grew  burdensome.  One  after- 
noon, when  he  had  driven  to  the  market  town,  his 
daughter  and  her  guest  were  in  the  garden  together, 
gathering  broad  beans  and  gossiping  with  much  con- 
tentment. 

4 1  wish  I  could  always  live  here ! '  exclaimed  Mr. 
Ruddiman,  after  standing  for  a  moment  with  eyes  fixed 
meditatively  upon  a  very  large  pod  which  he  had  just 
picked. 

Miss  Fouracres  looked  at  him  as  if  in  surprise,  her 
left  hand  clasping  her  chin. 

'  Ah,  you  'd  soon  get  tired  of  it,  sir.' 

'  I  shouldn't !  No,  I  'm  sure  I  shouldn't.  I  like  this 
life.  It  suits  me.  I  like  it  a  thousand  times  better  than 
teaching  in  a  school.' 

'  That 's  your  fancy,  sir.' 

As  Miss  Fouracres  spoke  a  sound  from  the  house  drew 
her  attention  ;  some  one  had  entered  the  inn. 

'  A  customer  ? '  said  Mr.  Ruddiman.  *  Let  me  go  and 
serve  him — do  let  me  ! ' 

*  But  you  wouldn't  know  how,  sir.' 

*  If  it 's   beer,  and  that 's  most  likely,  I  know  well 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  291 

enough.  I  Ve  watched  you  so  often.  I  '11  go  and 
see." 

With  the  face  of  a  schoolboy  he  ran  into  the  house,  and 
was  absent  about  ten  minutes.  Then  he  reappeared, 
chinking  coppers  in  his  hand  and  laughing  gleefully. 

'  A  cyclist !  Pint  of  half-and-half !  I  served  him  as 
if  I  M  done  nothing  else  all  my  life.1 

Miss  Fouracres  looked  at  him  with  wonder  and  admir- 
ation. She  did  not  laugh  ;  demonstrative  mirth  was 
not  one  of  her  characteristics ;  but  for  a  long  time  there 
dwelt  upon  her  good,  plain  countenance  a  half-smile  of 
placid  contentment.  When  they  went  in  together,  Mr. 
Ruddiman  begged  her  to  teach  him  all  the  mysteries 
of  the  bar,  and  his  request  was  willingly  granted.  In 
this  way  they  amused  themselves  until  the  return  of 
the  landlord,  who,  as  soon  as  he  had  stabled  his  pony, 
called  Mr.  Ruddiman  aside,  and  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper — 

'  The  Prince  comes  to-morrow  ! ' 

*  Ha  !  does  he  ? '  was  the  answer,  in  a  tone  of  feigned 
interest. 

4 1  shall  see  him.  It 's  all  settled.  I  Ve  made  friends 
with  one  of  the  gardeners  at  Woodbury  Manor,  and  he  ""s 
promised  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  meeting  His  Royal 
Highness.  I  shall  have  to  go  over  there  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  stay  in  Woodbury,  to  be  on  the  spot  when  the 
chance  offers.1 

Mr.  Fouracres  had  evidently  been  making  his  compact 
with  the  aid  of  strong  liquor ;  he  walked  unsteadily,  and 
in  other  ways  betrayed  imperfect  command  of  himself. 
Presently,  at  the  tea-table,  he  revealed  to  his  daughter 
the  great  opportunity  which  lay  before  him,  and  spoke 
of  the  absence  from  home  it  would  necessitate. 


292  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

'  Of  course  you  '11  do  as  you  like,  father,'  replied  Miss 
Fouracres,  with  her  usual  deliberation,  and  quite  good- 
humouredly, '  but  I  think  you  're  going  on  a  fool's  errand, 
and  that  I  tell  you  plain.  If  you  'd  just  forget  all  about 
the  Prince,  and  settle  down  quiet  at  the  Pig  and  Whistle, 
it  'ud  be  a  good  deal  better  for  you.' 

The  landlord  regarded  her  with  surprise  and  scorn. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  his  daughter  had  ventured  to 
express  herself  so  unmistakably. 

*  The  Pig  and  Whistle  ! '  he  exclaimed.  *  A  pothouse  ! 
I  who  have  kept  an  hotel  and  entertained  His  Royal 
Highness.  You  speak  like  an  ignorant  woman.  Hold 
your  tongue,  and  don't  dare  to  let  me  hear  your  voice 
again  until  to-morrow  morning  ! ' 

Miss  Fouracres  obeyed  him.  She  was  absolutely  mute 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  save  when  obliged  to  ex- 
change a  word  or  two  with  rustic  company  or  in  the 
taproom.  Her  features  expressed  uneasiness  rather  than 
mortification. 

The  next  day,  after  an  early  breakfast,  Mr.  Fouracres 
set  forth  to  the  town  of  Woodbury.  He  had  the  face  of 
a  man  with  a  fixed  idea,  and  looked  more  obstinate, 
more  unintelligent  than  ever.  To  his  daughter  he  had 
spoken  only  a  few  cold  words,  and  his  last  bidding  to 
her  was  *  Take  care  of  the  pothouse  ! '  This  treatment 
gave  Miss  Fouracres  much  pain,  for  she  was  a  soft- 
hearted woman,  and  had  never  been  anything  but  loyal 
and  affectionate  to  her  father  all  through  his  disastrous 
years.  Moreover,  she  liked  the  Pig  and  Whistle,  and 
could  not  bear  to  hear  it  spoken  of  disdainfully. 
Before  the  sound  of  the  cart  had  died  away  she  had 
to  wipe  moisture  from  her  eyes,  and  at  the  moment  when 
she  was  doing  so  Mr.  Ruddiman  came  into  the  parlour. 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  293 

'Has  Mr.  Fouracres  gone?'  asked  the  guest,  with 
em  barrassm  ent. 

*  Just  gone,  sir/  replied  the  young  woman,  half  turned 
away,  and  nervously  fingering  her  chin. 

*  I   shouldn't  trouble  about  it  if  I  were  you,  Miss 
Fouracres,'  said  Mr.   Ruddiman  in   a  tone  of  friendly 
encouragement.     '  He  '11  soon  be  back,  he  '11  soon  be  back, 
and  you  may  depend  upon  it  there  '11  be  no  harm  done.' 

*  I  hope  so,  sir,  but  I  've  an  uneasy  sort  of  feeling ;  I 
have  indeed.' 

'  Don't  you  worry,  Miss  Fouracres.  When  the  Prince 
has  gone  away  he  '11  be  better.' 

Miss  Fouracres  stood  for  a  moment  with  eyes  cast 
down,  then,  looking  gravely  at  Mr.  Ruddiman,  said  in 
a  sorrowful  voice — 

*  He  calls  the  Pig  aneU  Whistle  a  pothouse.' 

*  Ah,  that  was  wrong  of  him  ! '  protested  the  other, 
no  less  earnestly.    *  A  pothouse,  indeed  !     Why,  it 's  one 
of  the  nicest  little  inns  you  could  find  anywhere.     I  'm 
getting  fond  of  the  Pig  and  Whistle.    A  pothouse,  indeed  ! 
No,  I  call  that  shameful.' 

The  listener's  eyes  shone  with  gratification. 

*  Of  course  we  've  got  to  remember,'  she  said  more 
softly,  *  that  father  has  known  very  different  things.' 

*  I  don't  care  what  he  has  known  ! '  cried  Mr.  Ruddi- 
man.     '  I  hope  I  may  never  have  a  worse  home  than  the 
Pig  and  Whistle.     And  I  only  wish  I  could  live  here  all 
the  rest  of  my  life,  instead  of  going  back  to  that  beastly 
school ! ' 

*  Don't  you  like  the  school,  Mr.  Ruddiman  ?' 

*Oh,  I  can't  say  I  cfr.vlike  it.  But  since  I've  been 
living  here — well,  it's  no  use  thinking  of  impossi- 
bilities.' 


294  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

Towards  midday  the  pony  and  trap  came  back,  driven 
by  a  lad  from  Woodbury,  who  had  business  in  this  direc- 
tion. Miss  Fouracres  asked  him  to  unharness  and 
stable  the  pony,  and  whilst  this  was  being  done  Mr. 
Ruddiman  stood  by,  studiously  observant.  He  had 
pleasure  in  every  detail  of  the  inn  life.  To-day  he 
several  times  waited  upon  passing  guests,  and  laughed 
exultantly  at  the  perfection  he  was  attaining.  Miss 
Fouracres  seemed  hardly  less  pleased,  but  when  alone 
she  still  wore  an  anxious  look,  and  occasionally  heaved 
a  sigh  of  trouble. 

Mr.  Ruddiman,  as  usual,  took  an  early  supper,  and 
soon  after  went  up  to  his  room.  By  ten  o'clock  the 
house  was  closed,  and  all  through  the  night  no  sound 
disturbed  the  peace  of  the  Pig  and  Whistle. 

The  morrow  passed  without  news  of  Mr.  Fouracres. 
On  the  morning  after,  just  as  Mr.  Ruddiman  was  finish- 
ing his  breakfast,  alone  in  the  parlour,  he  heard  a  loud 
cry  of  distress  from  the  front  part  of  the  inn.  Rushing 
out  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  he  found  Miss  Fouracres 
in  agitated  talk  with  a  man  on  horseback. 

4  Ah,  what  did  I  say ! '  she  cried  at  sight  of  the 
guest.  '  Didn't  I  know  something  was  going  to  happen  ? 
I  must  go  at  once — I  must  put  in  the  pony ' 

*  1 11  do  that  for  you,1  said  Mr.  Ruddiman.  '  But 
what  has  happened  ? ' 

The  horseman,  a  messenger  from  Woodbury,  told  a 
strange  tale.  Very  early  this  morning,  a  gardener  walk- 
ing through  the  grounds  at  Woodbury  Manor,  and  pass- 
ing by  a  little  lake  or  fishpond,  saw  the  body  of  a  man 
lying  in  the  water,  which  at  this  point  was  not  three  feet 
in  depth.  He  drew  the  corpse  to  the  bank,  and,  in  so 
doing,  recognised  his  acquaintance/  Mr.  Fouracres,  with 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  295 

whom  he  had  spent  an  hour  or  two  at  a  public-house  in 
Woodbury  on  the  evening  before.  How  the  landlord  of 
the  Pig  and  Whistle  had  come  to  this  tragic  end  neither 
the  gardener  nor  any  one  else  in  the  neighbourhood  could 
conjecture. 

Mr.  Ruddiman  set  to  work  at  once  on  harnessing  the 
pony,  while  Miss  Fouracres,  now  quietly  weeping,  went 
to  prepare  herself  for  the  journey.  In  a  very  few  minutes 
the  vehicle  was  ready  at  the  door.  The  messenger  had 
already  ridden  away. 

*  Can    you   drive    yourself,   Miss    Fouracres  ? '  asked 
Ruddiman,   looking    and   speaking   with   genuine   sym- 
pathy. 

*  Oh  yes,  sir.     But  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about 
the  house.     I  may  be  away  all  day.     And  what  about 
you,  sir  ? ' 

*  Leave  me  to  look  after  myself,  Miss  Fouracres.     And 
trust  me  to  look  after  the  house  too,  will  you  ?     You 
know  I  can  do  it     Will  you  trust  me  ? ' 

*  It 's  only  that  I  'm  ashamed,  sir ' 

*  Not  a  bit  of  it.     I  'm  very  glad,  indeed,  to  be  useful ; 
I  assure  you  I  am/ 

*  But  your  dinner,  sir  ? ' 

'Why,  there's  cold  meat.  Don't  you  worry,  Miss 
Fouracres.  I  '11  look  after  myself,  and  the  house  too ; 
see  if  I  don't.  Go  at  once,  and  keep  your  mind  at  ease 
on  my  account,  pray  do  ! ' 

*  It 's  very  good  of  you,  sir,  I  'm  sure  it  is.     Oh,  I 
knew  something  was  going  to  happen  !     Didn't  I  say 
so?' 

Mr.  Ruddiman  helped  her  into  the  trap ;  they  shook 
hands  silently,  and  Miss  Fouracres  drove  away.  Before 
the  turn  of  the  road  she  looked  back.  Ruddimau  was 


296  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

still  watching  her ;  he  waved  his  hand,  and  the  young 
woman  waved  to  him  in  reply. 

Left  alone,  the  under-master  took  off  his  coat  and  put 
on  an  apron,  then  addressed  himself  to  the  task  of  wash- 
ing up  his  breakfast  things.  Afterwards  he  put  his 
bedroom  in  order.  About  ten  o'clock  the  first  customer 
came  in,  and,  as  luck  had  it,  the  day  proved  a  busier 
one  than  usual.  No  less  than  four  cyclists  stopped  to 
make  a  meal.  Mr.  Ruddiman  was  able  to  supply  them 
with  cold  beef  and  ham ;  moreover,  he  cooked  eggs,  he 
made  tea — and  all  this  with  a  skill  and  expedition  which 
could  hardly  have  been  expected  of  him.  None  the  less 
did  he  think  constantly  of  Miss  Fouracres.  About  five 
in  the  afternoon  wheels  sounded ;  aproned  and  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  he  ran  to  the  door — as  he  had  already 
done  several  times  at  the  sound  of  a  vehicle — and  with 
great  satisfaction  saw  the  face  of  his  hostess.  She,  too, 
though  her  eyes  showed  she  had  been  weeping  long, 
smiled  with  gladness;  the  next  moment  she  exclaimed 
distressfully. 

*  Oh,  sir !     To  think  you  've  been  here  alone  all  day  ! 
And  in  an  apron !  ' 

*  Don't  think  about  me,  Miss  Fouracres.     You  look 
worn  out,  and  no  wonder.     I'll  get  you  some  tea  at 
once.     Let  the  pony  stand  here  a  little;   he's  not  so 
tired  as  you  are.     Come  in  and  have  some  tea,  Miss 
Fouracres.1 

Mr.  Ruddiman  would  not  be  denied ;  he  waited  upon 
his  hostess,  got  her  a  very  comfortable  tea,  and  sat  near 
her  whilst  she  was  enjoying  it.  Miss  Fouracres'  story  of 
the  day's  events  still  left  her  father's  death  most  mys- 
terious. All  that  could  be  certainly  known  was  that  the 
landlord  of  the  Pig  and  Whistle  had  drunk  rather  freely 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  297 

with  his  friend  the  gardener  at  an  inn  at  Woodbury,  and 
towards  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  had  gone  out,  as  he 
said,  for  a  stroll  before  bedtime.  Why  he  entered  the 
grounds  of  Woodbury  Manor,  and  how  he  got  into  the 
pond  there,  no  one  could  say.  People  talked  of  suicide, 
but  Miss  Fouracres  would  not  entertain  that  suggestion. 
Of  course  there  was  to  be  an  inquest,  and  one  could  only 
await  the  result  of  such  evidence  as  might  be  forthcoming. 
During  the  day  Miss  Fouracres  had  telegraphed  to  the 
only  relatives  of  whom  she  knew  anything,  two  sisters  of 
her  father,  who  kept  a  shop  in  London.  Possibly  one 
of  them  might  come  to  the  funeral. 

*  Well,1  said  Mr.  Ruddiman,  in  a  comforting  tone,  *  all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  keep  quiet.      Don't  trouble  about 
anything.      Ill  look  after  the  business.' 

Miss  Fouracres  smiled  at  him  through  her  tears. 

*  It 's  very  good  of  you,  sir,  but  you  make  me  feel 
ashamed.      What  sort  of  a  day  have  you  had  ? ' 

*  Splendid  !     Look  here  ! ' 

He  exhibited  the  day's  receipts,  a  handful  of  cash,  and, 
with  delight  decently  subdued,  gave  an  account  of  all 
that  had  happened. 

*I  like  this  business!'  he  exclaimed.  'Don't  you 
trouble  about  anything.  Leave  it  all  to  me,  Miss 
Fouracres.' 

One  of  the  London  aunts  came  down,  and  passed 
several  days  at  the  Pig  and  Whistle.  She  was  a  dry, 
keen,  elderly  woman,  chiefly  interested  in  the  question  of 
her  deceased  brother's  property,  which  proved  to  be  in- 
significant enough.  Meanwhile  the  inquest  was  held, 
and  all  the  countryside  talked  of  Mr.  Fouracres,  whose 
story,  of  course,  was  published  in  full  detail  by  the  news- 
papers. Once  more  opinions  were  divided  as  to  whether 

u 


298  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

the  hapless  landlord  really  had  or  had  not  entertained 
His  Royal  Highness.  Plainly,  Mr.  Fouracres"  presence 
in  the  grounds  of  Woodbury  Manor  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  Prince  happened  to  be  staying  there.  In  a  state 
of  irresponsibility,  partly  to  be  explained  by  intoxication, 
partly  by  the  impulse  of  his  fixed  idea,  he  must  have 
gone  rambling  in  the  dark  round  the  Manor,  and  there, 
by  accident,  have  fallen  into  the  water.  No  clearer 
hypothesis  resulted  from  the  legal  inquiry,  and  with  this 
all  concerned  had  perforce  to  be  satisfied.  Mr.  Fouracres 
was  buried,  and,  on  the  day  after  the  funeral,  his  sister 
returned  to  London.  She  showed  no  interest  whatever 
in  her  niece,  who,  equally  independent,  asked  neither 
counsel  nor  help. 

Mr.  Ruddiman  and  his  hostess  were  alone  together 
at  the  Pig  and  Whistle.  The  situation  had  a  certain 
awkwardness.  Familiars  of  the  inn — country-folk  of 
the  immediate  neighbourhood — of  course  began  to  com- 
ment on  the  state  of  things,  joking  among  themselves 
about  Mr.  Ruddiman's  activity  behind  the  bar.  The 
under-master  himself  was  in  an  uneasy  frame  of  mind. 
When  Miss  Fouracres'  aunt  had  gone,  he  paced  for 
an  hour  or  two  about  the  garden ;  the  hostess  was 
serving  cyclists.  At  length  the  familiar  voice  called  to 
him. 

'  Will  you  have  your  dinner,  Mr.  Ruddiman  ? ' 
He  went  in,  and,  before  entering  the  parlour,  stood 
looking  at  a  cask  of  ale  which  had  been  tilted  forward. 

*  We  must  tap  the  new  cask,1  he  remarked. 

*  Yes,  sir,  I  suppose  we  must,1  replied  his  hostess,  half 
absently. 

*  I  '11  do  it  at  once.     Some  more  cyclists  might  come.' 
For  the  rest  of  the  day  they  saw  very  little  of  each 


THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE  299 

other.  Mr.  Ruddiman  rambled  musing.  When  he  came 
at  the  usual  hour  to  supper,  guests  were  occupying  the 
hostess.  Having  eaten,  he  went  out  to  smoke  his  pipe 
in  the  garden,  and  lingered  there — it  being  a  fine,  warm 
night — till  after  ten  o'clock.  Miss  Fouracres'  voice 
aroused  him  from  a  fit  of  abstraction. 

*  I  've  just  locked  up,  sir.1 
« Ah  !     Yes.     It 's  late.' 

They  stood  a  few  paces  apart.  Mr.  Ruddiman  had 
one  hand  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  the  other  behind  hk 
back ;  Miss  Fouracres  was  fingering  her  chin. 

*  I  Ve   been  wondering,'  said   the   under-master  in   a 
diffident   voice,    '  how   you  '11    manage   all    alone,    Miss 
Fouracres.' 

*  Well,  sir,'  was  the  equally  diffident  reply,  *  I  Ve  been 
wondering  too.' 

*  It  won't  be  easy  to  manage  the  Pig  and  Whistle  all 
alone.' 

*  I  'm  afraid  not,  sir.' 

*  Besides,  you  couldn't  live  here  in  absolute  solitude. 
It  wouldn't  be  safe.' 

*  I  shouldn't  quite  like  it,  sir.' 

*  But  I  'm  sure  you  wouldn't  like  to  leave  the  Pig  and 
Whistle,  Miss  Fouracres  ? ' 

*  I  'd  much  rather  stay,  sir,  if  I  could  any  way  manage 
it.' 

Mr.  Ruddiman  drew  a  step  nearer. 

'  Do  you  know,  Miss  Fouracres,  I  Ve  been  thinking  just 
the  same.  The  fact  is,  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  leav- 
ing the  Pig  and  Whistle ;  I  don't  like  it  at  all.  This 
life  suits  me.  Could  you' — he  gave  a  little  laugh — 
*  engage  me  as  your  assistant,  Miss  Fouracres  ? ' 

«Oh,  sir!' 


300  THE  PIG  AND  WHISTLE 

« You  couldn't  ? ' 

*  How  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing,  sir.' 

*  Well,  then,  there 's  only  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty 
that  I  can  see.     Do  you  think ' 

Had  it  not  been  dark  Mr.  Ruddiman  would  hardly 
have  ventured  to  make  the  suggestion  which  fell  from 
him  in  a  whisper.  Had  it  not  been  dark  Miss  Fouracres 
would  assuredly  have  hesitated  much  longer  before  giving 
her  definite  reply.  As  it  was,  five  minutes  of  conversa- 
tion solved  what  had  seemed  a  harder  problem  than  any 
the  under-master  set  to  his  class  at  Longmeadows,  and 
when  these  two  turned  to  enter  the  Pig  and  Whistle, 
they  went  hand  in  hand. 


THE  END 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  INU.S. 


FACILITY 


Jt""oOO  699  550    0 


